From Dust to Flesh: Myria LeJean Book 1
by OldStoneface
Summary: Once upon a time, the Auditors committed the ultimate arrogance and created life. But the Auditor inside 'Lady Myria LeJean' soon discovered that the flesh shapes the mind as the mind controls the flesh, and learned why living is so hard to set aside. Cover art by shiolein.
1. The Auditors

_**The rights to The Discworld and its characters created by Terry Pratchett are owned by Terry Pratchett and his publishers. All copyrights associated with the Discworld belong to them. Only the ideas and original characters in this work of fan fiction are my property. No profit is being derived from this story. Seriously guys, Pratchett is a genius. Go out and buy Thief of Time. Pratchett will thank you and so will I.**_

_**[A/N This story takes place both during and after Terry Pratchett's novel Thief of Time. The first five chapters are an expansion on the secondary character of Myria LeJean with some retelling from her point of view of scenes that originally appeared in that novel. As such, this story will contain some spoilers if you have not yet read ToT. My thanks to shiolein at for allowing me to use their artwork in my cover.] **_

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><p><strong>Chapter 1 – The Auditors<strong>

Nature abhors a vacuum.

Ironically, and unknown to most of us, the feeling is quite mutual.

Between the stars, between the countless flecks of dust and wisps of tenuous gasses, is the apparent emptiness of space. But it is not empty enough. Even in the deepest vacuum, random hydrogen atoms and bits of matter and energy smaller and more exotic, drift their way from birth to heat death[1]. If you could look into the nothingness that makes up most of that matter, you would find something staring back at you in loathing.[2]

There is an intelligence of sorts, consider it the bureaucratic arm of the laws of the universe, that makes sure gravity does what it is supposed to, that an object in a straight line continues in that direction until some fool comes along and gives it a nudge the wrong way.

They are the Auditors of Reality. And they have been trying to finish cataloguing, analyzing, and calculating what is and will be since the creation of the physical universe. They would enjoy their job, if they knew what enjoyment was, and if it wasn't for one small problem. Life.

You see, life is not predictable. Things that live do stupid things seemingly at random, and the Auditors, if they had any hair, would have pulled it out by now over that alone. But if that weren't bad enough, humans had come along, the worst of the whole "life" plague.

Humans were not only alive, they had something called _imagination_, a very specialized form of lying that somehow seemed acceptable. A human could look at an ordered arrangement of colors on paper and claim that it represented some ridiculously unrelated concept[3], and other humans acted as if it was suddenly true. The Auditors had the ability to wipe all life, and humanity in particular, off the face of reality. Behavior like that made them want to push the 'end of the world' button on a regular basis.

Unfortunately for the Auditors, there were rules, and the Auditors had to follow the rules. An Auditor that even thought seriously about breaking the rules was denying his own existence, and could promptly cease to exist. So they could not actively do anything to make their jobs easier in this respect.

What they could do is influence living things, and humans in particular, to try to do the deed for them. Sometimes it was in subtle ways. They would convince a human or group of them that the universe was just too big, and they were just too small, and the oppressiveness of that knowledge would weigh them down until they either snapped out of it or took the proverbial door marked 'EXIT'[4]. But it really didn't make much headway from the Auditors' point of view. So from time to time, they attempted to influence things on a… much larger scale.

Such as this situation...

There was a clock once. A glass clock built by a madman that was so accurate that it could tell time. Not as in _read_ time. It could actually _tell_ time what to be, and for a wonderful moment (from the Auditors point of view) it had told time to _stop_. Then a small metal part had gone _ping_ and history had fragmented. Correcting the resulting mess had not been the Auditors' problem, but there had been a lot of very uncomfortable questions.

This time, the Auditors believed they had the key. They would not leave it solely up to a human to get it right by himself, and they would not torture a madman with dreams until, only half aware of what he was doing, he built the clock.

This time, they would approach things more… methodically.

The Auditors were strong believers in methodical. It was right up there with ordered, deliberate, and not bloody stupid.

What they found was a particular human. A human who in many ways was very much like an Auditor, who had a keenness for things mechanical and an obsession with time. A foundling adopted by the Clockmakers Guild, Jeremy Clockson did not understand people much more than the Auditors did. It was this combination of knowledge and a complete ignorance of some of the baser human traits (such as greed, duplicity, and knowing 'why you should not push that button') that made him ideal for their purposes. And so they watched him, and conferred.

_He has the requisite abilities,_ one said.

_Yes, but how will we entice him to create the clock?_

_We have seen that this one does things simply for the sake of doing them. Therefore it is logical that to merely show him such a thing could be done would be enticement enough._

_Then it is agreed._

_We shall need to interact with the human._

They conferred further, and determined the usual approach of a cloaked figure offering endless wealth would probably not work on the human. They would have to be more… nuanced.

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><p>The Auditors could manipulate matter, which was bending the rules a bit, but was definitely not <em>against<em> the rules. They had once considered manipulating matter directly, causing all living bodies to transform into pure elements like iron or lead. But after conferring, they determined that this would definitely result in far too many questions being asked in pointed tones. But in the process of consideration, they determined that they could, in fact, analyze the human body down to the nth detail, and therefore they could create one from raw matter. Strangely, the bodies created this way seemed uninterested in getting up and moving around, which would have been useful to study. Instead, they had slowly converted into puddles of goo with some rather interesting chemical spectra.

However, they also discovered that by placing one of their number _inside_ such a created form, they could actually get it mobile. It was difficult to do sufficient study, because for some reason the Auditors in question tended to act in erratic ways and eventually had to be removed. They reasoned that in this case, the risks were statistically outweighed by the potential benefits. Admittedly, some luckless Auditor might be risking death by operating the body. But after lengthy consultation they decided that the risks could be mitigated if the Auditor 'at the reins' frequently returned to its normal state to confer with its peers.

And so was born Lady Myria LeJean. They chose the name to remind the Operator that it was part of the group consciousness. Myria as in myriad. LeJean as in legion. If they had any sense of humor, it was a poor one. They wanted to build the perfect human, since they could not see the reason for an imperfect one. After an analysis of what humans seemed to consider 'beautiful' they settled on the painting 'Woman Holding Ferret' by Leonard of Quirm.

Without the flaws of course.

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><p><em>How shall the Operator be chosen? It may require… a volunteer<em>, one said.

There was a pause as the group shuddered. Auditors never volunteered for anything. Even thinking about it caused uneasy hints of individuality. In the end, they opted instead to choose by consensus. Since all Auditors sought to be indistinguishable from the one to their left, this was a long process. They settled on a candidate that had displayed the highest amount of dangerous individualism. Their reasoning, of course, was impeccable. In the first place, it was already flirting with individualism and therefore nonexistence. In the second, it was the least likely to discorporate at the mere suggestion of the task at hand. And in the third, it meant they would not be the one chosen. It was… perfect.

The hapless Auditor was given little choice in the matter. The body had to be operated from the inside, they explained, but it would not _be_ the body. The Auditor would still remain part of the "we" and therefore safe.

Well, safer than if it tried to unvolunteer.

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><p>1 Heat death is a rather melodramatic title for a mundane effect. Basically, it is the 'tepid bathwater end of everything' after all the stars burn out and everything ends up the same temperature. Boring from our standpoint, but the Auditors are looking forward to how it will simplify the paperwork.<p>

2 Do you mind? Your random and meaningless observing is impacting reality.

3 In point of fact, one infamous work by Quirmian abstract artist Marcel of Chompes almost precipitated an Armageddon and decreased the population of Auditors by 5x103. The work, titled "The Groom Dressed Curiously by his Mother", consisted solely of a piece of glass he accidentally left leaning in a corner for three years, gathering dust and cobwebs in a vaguely interesting pattern and, later, the remains of his lunch.

4 It couldn't really be considered malicious, at least from the Auditor's point of view. All they were trying to do comply with the Documentation Reduction Act of 1526, Section 9342.2b.

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><p><em>[AN My thanks to __DarkPatu, __Virtuella, ___Ciaytee, and Lynxcat_ for their invaluable feedback during review and publication. Please take the time to provide feedback, either as a review or a private message. Constructive criticism is welcome.  
><em>

_**BEFORE YOU REVIEW** if you are unfamiliar with Thief of Time, please note that I did not create the idea/concept/design of the Auditors nor the character Lady Myria LeJean and can not take credit for the awesomeness of those concepts (see earlier ravings about Pratchett). This chapter consists almost completely of my telling of events that would have taken place before Chapter 1 of Thief of Time, so the words here are all my own. I worry at times that people will give me too much credit for what they like about this chapter.]  
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	2. Lady Myria LeJean

**Chapter 2 – Lady Myria LeJean**

On a Wednesday in a deserted shed in the small Überwald town of Bad Schüschein, dust motes drifted despite a lack of air currents in the dirty room. Gradually, bits of matter coalesced into the middle of the floor, working its way through some rather disturbing forms, and became a woman—a gray-clothed and exceedingly beautiful woman, surrounded by the gray shapes of other Auditors.

The body of Lady LeJean opened its mouth, and nothing came out. The body looked confused, made a few strange mewling noises, and then figured out how to inhale. _That had been… very unpleasant_… at least "unpleasant" seemed the correct word for what the body was telling the Auditor.

After a few hours of getting things under control, the body of Lady Myria LeJean drifted out of the shed and down the street to **We-R-Igors**. Drifted, not walked. Drifting required less control than walking, and the Auditors reasoned that as long as the clothing covered the lower extremities, the humans were unlikely to notice.

At **We-R-Igors**, the Auditor had interviewed Igor…well, an Igor. One was as good as another after all. When the Auditors were satisfied that, like Clockson, the Igor had the required skills, the body paid in advance in newly created gold. The contract included the provision that the Igor must leave for Ankh Morpork immediately. Igors being nothing if not accommodating, it crated itself up and had itself put onto the mail coach that very day.

That task completed, the body returned to the shed and proceeded to discorporate so that it could be reformed in Ankh Morpork. Curiously, the Auditor experienced some momentary malfunction at this point, a resistance before the process initiated. Minutes later, the shed was again empty.

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><p>In Ankh-Morpork, in another empty room, the process was the same, and the intermediate steps no less disturbing. However, this time the Auditor felt an almost physical <em>snap<em> as it took position as Operator. There was a _feeling,_ the body told the Auditor as the process occurred. It decided that it was not a feeling it would categorize as desirable. Then another _feeling_, after the process was completed. This one could be put in the box labeled "_familiarity_". The Auditor tested out various functions, and decided that it was becoming easier to operate.

The other Auditors appeared again, and silently conferred with it.

_We will now proceed with the plan,_ One said.

Another said, _The body will need guards, both for appearances and to ensure nothing interrupts the plan._

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><p>The first visit to Clockson's shop was a success. The human reacted well to "Lady LeJean," and was fascinated by the challenge of building the clock. The Auditor found itself fascinated as well by the intricate mechanisms the clockmaker had scattered throughout his shop. The body's eyes somehow both limited perception and sharpened it, emphasizing aspects differently from the broader Auditor's perceptions.<p>

There had been a few confusing moments as well. One occurred when it had introduced itself by extending its gloved hand, palm down. "We are Myria LeJean. _Lady_ Myria LeJean." It did this because in observing humans, there seemed to be various protocols for using hands in greetings. This one required the least interaction. But in response Clockson held out his hand as well. Surely he could not imagine it would want to… interact physically. The thought was unpleasant.

One of the trolls, apparently having the troll equivalent of a genius IQ, broke the impasse.

"Der lady does not shake hands," it had said. "She are not a tactile kinda person."

Later, in another strange moment, the Auditor was demonstrating its superior knowledge. They had been discussing Xeno's Paradox.

"But Xeno came up with four paradoxes, I believe," the Auditor said. "They involved the idea that there is such a thing as the smallest possible unit of time. And it must exist must it not? Consider the present. It must have a length, because one end of it is connected to the past and the other is connected to the future, and if it did not have a length then the present could not exist at all. There would be no time for it to be the present in."

The result was strange. Instead of continuing immediately with the conversation, the clockmaker stopped. His mouth opened slightly and his eyes widened. _Surprise_, the body's brain hazarded. Then his face went strange, in a manner that the Auditor could not interpret at all, and the body was no help. The corners of the clockmaker's mouth turned up, though the mouth stayed open, the eyes did something strange, and the face reddened slightly.

Finally Clockson seemed to remember the conversation, and went on, but the reaction…gnawed at the Auditor. In the end, the Auditor handed over the book containing the story of the last time the clock had been made, paid a rather ridiculous sum of gold, and left with the troll guards.

The _feeling_, the Auditor decided, was one of satisfaction.

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><p>The body of Lady LeJean returned to the warehouse and discorporated. This time, the malfunction was more pronounced. The Auditor considered, filed it under '<em>feelings of discomfort'<em> and noted that it had increased compared to the previous event. It also considered that staying embodied was becoming '_uncomfortable'_. At least discorporated, the Auditor could observe what was going on without the increasing number of distractions it was experiencing.

The Auditors watched as the book, and Jeremy's own personality quirks, did their damage overnight.

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><p>The next day, the Igor arrived and things seriously began to happen. Each day the Auditor would check on the clock and note that it had moved further toward completion. Mr. Jeremy, as the Auditor began calling the human, was methodically working his way through the mechanisms required, which was satisfying.<p>

Each day, changing from Auditor to Lady LeJean and back became more problematic, with increasing feelings of discomfort both when corporating and more so when discorporating.

By the following Wednesday, strange things were happening to the assembled pieces and to Mr. Jeremy's behavior, but the Auditor could not say why. It did not dwell on this, because the clock held its attention. Mr. Jeremy likewise seemed compelled to discuss the clock, but the human's face kept doing odd things, and it was causing strange reactions in the body. Finally the Auditor prepared to take its leave, and Mr. Jeremy smiled in a strange way and mumbled, "Um... I was wondering, um, your ladyship, um... perhaps, um, you would like to take dinner with me, um, tonight um..."

The words entered the air, reverberated, worked their way to the body's ears and set up their own vibrations. Hairs oscillated, nerves fired and sent signals racing to the organ called the brain, which processed and interpreted. And did other things that the Auditor had not asked it to do.

Yes, it informed the Auditor of the words spoken, but it also put them on, apparently, some sort of expressway to various automatic systems. The Auditor felt the resulting backlash as a shock, and momentarily lost control of the body, which proceeded to flash through surprise, shock and then subconscious systems caused its face to redden and warm. The Auditor was being assaulted by overloading and conflicting internal signals, and did the best it could under the circumstances.

"Why, Mr. Jeremy, I... I do not know what to say," Lady LeJean stammered, the icy composure the Auditor had been using turning into a warm puddle. "I really... I do not know... perhaps some other time? I do have an important engagement, so glad to have met you, I must be going. Goodbye."

With that, it practically hurled itself out of the building. Forgetting even to hover a respectable distance above the street at first, Lady LeJean and her escort headed down Small Gods, where she dismissed them when they reached Short Street. Crossing over to Bee Street and turning right, she made her way back to the warehouse space. It was there that the body staged its most serious rebellion yet.

Well, we probably should not say 'the body' at this point. It was Jeremy's clumsy attempt at romance that had been the catalyst. That bolt of emotion was the first thing that had truly bridged the space between the created shell and the controlling consciousness, welding a few key points tightly together. Whether the Auditor wanted to admit it or not, or could even imagine it, Lady LeJean was becoming something that was a merging of its original two aspects. As a result, there was a definite struggle, one that came through as almost painful, before the body dissolved back to component dust and the Auditor's awareness fled back to the group consciousness.

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><p>The next day was Thursday again, and like clockwork, the Auditors appeared to consult regarding the day's plans. Lady LeJean coalesced in the warehouse, and this time she almost fell as she reformed. The…<em>pain<em> during the process was debilitating. _I can not do this any more_, she thought. And the conclusion came with a palpable relief. She repeated it aloud for the Auditors - for the _other_ Auditors.

One said, _Ah... can you tell us what pain is like? We have often wondered._

"No. No, I do not think I can. It is... a body thing. It is difficult to describe, but it is not pleasant. From now on, I will retain the body."

One said, _That could be dangerous._

"We have been through that before. It is only a matter of appearance," she said. "And it is remarkable how much easier it is to deal with humans in this form."

One said, _You moved your shoulders for no functional reason. And you are making noises with your mouth. A hole for food and air._

Lady LeJean considered this, realizing that the body was, more and more, making automatic movements without her—_it_, consciously deciding to do so. The automatic functioning made things easier, but somewhat concerning as well. The Auditors spent several more minutes discussing the phenomenon. Slowly, Lady LeJean realized that no matter how it tried, it could not explain the experience, the—_feelings_—in terms that its fellow Auditors could understand.

For one thing, Lady LeJean had started referring to itself as "I". And had done so without discorporating! Even more, saying it actually seemed to make her feel—better and at the same time worse. The Auditor was becoming seriously worried at how the brain was working as well; while some things seemed completely automatic, others could be adjusted but only with concentration, and others only worked if it demanded specific action. The most concerning functions where those which required concentration to _prevent_ them from happening. Food for instance, seemed to be making demands on the body, and the body _wanted_ to comply. The Auditor had tried commanding it to stop, even resorted to trying to reason with it (which was ridiculous) but it didn't seem to work and was a horrible feeling.

There was the Auditor, at this point clearly an "I", sitting inside looking out at the world. And then there was… everything else. The whole universe. And you could sit in the darkness and talk to someone else, who was also you.

_Am I going insane?_

The Auditors were very—disturbed—by this. Then she told her first lie, and it was a big one.

"I do not wish to continue in this way any longer than necessary."

And she got away with it! They could not see her thoughts, she was alone in her head, and they were out there. But being inside was like being on the receiving end of a horrific and amazing range of new senses that were like nothing she had ever imagined. It was like a drug, and she didn't want it to stop. But it was terrifying!

The Auditor gathered its scattered thoughts. She—_it_ would be strong. It would be in charge.

"I shall need to obtain lodgings for this body. If the body is retained, it will be able to facilitate the completion of the clock more quickly." Another lie!

_This is logical. The body must remain undamaged for its desired effect,_ said one.

_This structure will serve the purpose,_ said another.

The body actually recoiled, which was both surprising and impressive. "No, to be effective, the body requires maintenance and accessories which must also be properly stored and arranged. I shall have to obtain lodgings that are consistent with the appearance and expectations that we have created with the body."

There was silence, which in the case of Auditors was consent.

Lady LeJean left and obtained accommodations at a hotel on Holofernes Street, just off New Bridge. La Extravaganzia was a rather expensive hotel, but she told herself that she was only keeping up appearances. In truth, something about the otherwise useless items made of gold, cloth, and decaying plants[1] arranged throughout the hotel rather pulled at the body.

It was strange, how these simple objects could affect it. But the bakery just across the bridge on the Isle of Gods, between the hotel and the clockmaker's shop, had an even more profound effect.

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><p>The first night she almost changed her mind about remaining in the body. First had come the strange feeling of sluggishness. The body's extremities became heavy and slow to respond. Then the eyes ached. Finally, not really realizing what was happening, she decided to close them. Perhaps if they were rested for a few minutes. The Auditors knew that humans slept, but they didn't understand it was really a requirement. They assumed it was just boredom.<p>

She awoke the first time screaming her throat raw, her mind paralyzed by terrors that had crept out of some pseudogenetic memory. Slithery things moving through opaque water. Dark things made of teeth in the deeper darkness. Fur and blood had assaulted her mind. She almost fled the body in horror, and then stayed in fear that she might fail if she tried. Hotel staff converged on the sound and she dismissed them imperiously without opening the door.

She spent the next three hours with her arms wrapped around herself, rocking back and forth staring at the walls, vowing never to do _that_ again.

And then awoke again late in the morning, shocked to find the body had betrayed her again, and even more shocked to find herself alive. Over the next couple of days, she continued fighting sleep, and primal fears continued to stalk her dreams, but gradually the fear that she would not live through the night faded.

She discovered things to fill the days, to distract her from focusing on the nights, and to keep up appearances of course.

It was Monday, her third trip past the bakery on Body Street, that was the breaking point. She now knew that she wasn't getting enough sleep and understood that it was a requirement. And the body would not leave her alone. She had tried everything to assert her authority over it, but it wouldn't _listen_! It kept demanding. Sleep, food, drink. She did not… should not need these! She could create nutrients directly from the material around her, and have them appear directly in her cells. But the body didn't believe her. "_Starving!_" it insisted in its primitive language of growls and complaints. She ignored it. She was in charge.

She had walked past the bakery day after day, and each time the smell of fresh bread made her mouth salivate! The sense of smell fed into parts of the brain that bypassed her completely! And gave orders to all sorts of other parts! She was in charge!

Still, she might have resisted another day, if the human at the outside counter had not offered her some fresh bread that morning on her way to the clockmaker's shop.

"Miss, would you care for a sample?" the young male human asked.

She looked at him, filed him as not a threat, and drifted over. "We are Lady Myria LeJean. We are not Miss."

He was embarrassed; she worked that emotion out and filed it away. "Forgive me, my Lady, but I thought you might like to try our bread. You have stared at it for the last two days."

She blushed again. It was true. "Ah… yes, we… we would be pleased to try… bread." Her mouth and hands took over before she could even finish the sentence, and popped a small morsel of fresh bread into her mouth before her brain finished processing the thought.

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><p>1 The human habit of displaying the severed sexual organs of plants in porcelain containers was another of those things that puzzled the Auditors.<p>

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><p><em><strong>[AN BEFORE YOU REVIEW** if you are unfamiliar with Thief of Time, please note that the events in this chapter are an expansion and retelling from Myria's POV of events that take place in Pratchett's novel Thief of Time (told more from Jeremy Clockson's POV in that novel). As such I can not take credit for thinking up the events/concepts that occur here. Any dialogue that includes Jeremy Clockson likewise are excerpts from Thief of Time and were only included to ensure story continuity. The other details, including the dialogue with the baker, are my own.]  
><em>


	3. Connoisseur

**Chapter 3 – Connoisseur**

Lady Myria LeJean came back to her senses a half hour later, lying on a hard surface inside the bakery with the human patting her hand. She dazedly looked back at what she had just experienced. It had been as bad as the nightmares! But at the same time almost pleasurable. She was horrified at the feeling of helplessness in the face of this... assault on herself. And yet… the body claimed it had enjoyed it! And wanted more! How did humans survive this?

She groaned, as merely replaying the memory started her drooling a bit.

"My Lady! Are you ok?"

"Y-yes, we are… we are fine. It was… too much…"

He looked at her strangely. "But it was just fresh bread! And you just collapsed, and then a few times you looked…" He struggled for words. "…like looking at something through a fog or a mist."

She paled, recognizing the description. She had begun to discorporate! Part of her, the Auditor part, tried to argue that this was not a huge concern, that the body could be rebuilt. But the Lady LeJean portion wasn't buying any of that argument. What was clear was that she had to be firm. She would not eat anything again… to do so was to risk death. She would NOT do it.

Liar.

"Lady?"

"Yes… we are… correct. We are fine."

He helped her to sit up, and she forgot that she was "not a tactile person" and was soon on her feet and leaning on him.

"Let me help you home. My uncle is watching the shop. Where do you live?"

She shook the last of the cobwebs from her head. "La Extravaganzia… it is—"

His eyes went slightly round and his face flushed. The Extravaganzia was just across New Bridge, and catered to visiting peerage from Genua and other exotic locales. Lodgings there cost an entire month's profit for a tradesman. He cleared his throat. "Ah, yes, milady, off we go then."

As he helped her across the bridge to the hotel, he made what a human would consider small talk; pointing out shops that sold interesting items, adding tidbits of history. He was clearly enjoying his role as guide for a 'visiting dignitary'. He saw her to the front of the hotel, but did not enter the lobby. With a flourish he applied what he thought of as a formal farewell, leaning down quickly to kiss her gloved hand, and returned to his shop.

Back in her lodgings, Lady LeJean reflected on two things. First that she felt warm and strange where she had leaned on him during the walk back, and second that her body was demanding she shove more bread into her mouth. She threw herself on the bed, miserable, and felt water leak from her eyes as she slowly passed to sleep and the torment of dreams.

The next day, she avoided both the clockmaker's shop and the bakery. Instead she tried to distract herself from the thought of food by immersing herself in other human experiences. She'd been fascinated by the art galleries. Auditors typically were, because humans had this way of recreating reality on a canvas that made it somehow _more_ than reality.

And that was only the start. There were too many things, too many experiences that did not make sense and seemed like a threat to her. The sooner the clock was finished, the better. Yes. In the meantime, she went to art galleries, museums, and the opera. The Isle of Gods had the highest concentration of these, and she was apparently living life to the fullest, except of course, for that nagging eating thing.

That evening, the hotel maitre'd brought her a message that there was a tradesman who had a package for her, but would only deliver it in person. Had it been a servant, they would have sent him on his way if he would not hand over the parcel. But a tradesman deserved some consideration. Upon being escorted to just outside the lobby, she saw it was the baker again. He was dressed a bit more formally, but as she neared he still smelled faintly of bread… wonderful, glorious, horrifying bread. Her stomach expressed its rebellion, and she muttered curses under her breath. _Shut up, I am in charge, not you_.

"Excuse me, milady?"

"Nothing. You wished to see us?

"Ah, yes, milady, I hope I am not intruding."

"How can you intrude, we are outside? That makes no sense."

He reddened a bit. "My apologies, I mean that I did not want to impose on your time, milady. It's just that…I could not stop thinking about what happened yesterday. About what you said."

Her stomach growled again…and her mouth began watering. _ In charge!_

"What I said, Mr…" She paused for a moment… humans had names of course. Surely he had one. "What is your name?"

He seemed shocked that she would bother to ask. "Knäcke, milady." he responded, pronouncing it it almost like 'knock'.

"Very well… Mr. Knäcke." She paused again. "You had something to give us?"

"Yes, milady, as I was saying, I was thinking about yesterday, and I was concerned. I mean to say, I thought at first you might have had a reaction to the bread, or there might have been something wrong with it. But others ate it and nothing happened. It was just bread! But then you had said it was too much."

Her stomach growled again. This was torture! She gritted her teeth, feeling a new emotion… which strangely seemed to involve some sort of violent reaction. Her hands were even clenching!

He seemed to sense this, and continued quickly, "So I brought you this, just as a test, milady." He held out his hand containing a tin, which he opened to reveal several small squares. "They're wafer bread, you see, unleavened bread, heavy on the soda powder. Most people don't like them because they are practically tasteless, you see."

She stared at him until her brain got it… and sent an express message down to the stomach with a quick query. Then her mouth got in on the conversation, bypassed her brain entirely and informed her left hand that if it knew what was good for it, it would bring it one of those immediately.

Next thing she knew, she had the most wonderful sensation in her mouth and was making quiet whimpering noises with her eyes closed. It was the worst…. no it was definitely the most intense and pleasurable experience she had ever felt without the horror of that…that _bread_ from the day before. She spent the next few seconds watching fireworks in her head as the experience cascaded through her. Then she opened her eyes.

The baker was standing there, a look of concern on his face and both hands out as if to catch her. The street seemed to be swaying. And something was hurting her left hand. She looked down to see that she had the closed tin in a grip so tight that her knuckles were turning white.

"Milady?"

"I… that is, _we_ are well. That was…that was incredible."

"But you feel well? You are not faint?"

"No, no, we are fine. But… why are we out here? Why did you not bring this to me… _us_… in the hotel?"

He looked embarrassed again. "My Lady, La Extravaganzia is very exclusive. Surely a lady of your status realizes that even an established tradesman would not be allowed inside unless he was working on something in the hotel."

She felt another new sensation wash over her, it was not one that she could pinpoint but it cycled its way through surprise, understanding, and then resolve. "Yes, we see... then it appears since we are likely to desire further business with your bakery, we shall have to make arrangements otherwise. Thank you, Mr. Knäcke, this was very…" She sought for the word. "…kind of you."

"I am grateful you find it to your liking, milady." Smiling, he took his leave.

Lady LeJean, on the other hand, went back to her rooms and spent the next several hours alternating between the lightshow in her head as she consumed each wafer, and deciding she was going to make delivery of future marvels much more convenient.

* * *

><p>Upon awakening the next morning, she informed the maitre'd that while she had paid a month in advance for her stay, she wished assistance in obtaining a more permanent dwelling. The rather oily man who arrived at the hotel to show her a large but (as far as she could tell) tasteful house in Kings Way was very solicitous, and became still more solicitous when she offered to pay three months in advance with a quite small bar of gold. This was, in point of fact, rather more than three months rent, but we will forgive the man's morals for deserting him at the sight of all that shiny yellow metal. So he turned over the key and she became the tenant of a largely unfurnished home that was five times the size she really needed, only a half–block away from the prestigious Ramkin mansion.<p>

She did not visit the clockmaker on Thursday and Friday. Instead she continued her cultural explorations. And she stopped by the Body Street bakery each day. She was as hooked as any addict. She didn't purposefully go there, but her feet… well more or less drifted that way every morning. And then in the evening, the baker paid her a personal visit at Kings Way. To his shock, she had him come to the front entrance instead of the tradesman's entrance.

Each visit, they would sit in the drawing room and she would salivate as he explained how he had added some subtle ingredient to the wafers, a pinch into the mix and no more. Subtle! Every taste was like being hit in the mouth by the whole world! And he called it subtle! Once, while she was savoring his latest creation, he had explained the richness of a cake… gods, a layered cake with sugar frosting. He stopped when he could see her growing pale, and after that kept the discussion to non-food items.

* * *

><p><em><strong>[AN BEFORE YOU REVIEW** if you are unfamiliar with Thief of Time, please note that the events in this chapter are almost all my own, though some of them were mentioned in passing in Pratchett's novel.]_


	4. Saboteur

**Chapter 4 – Saboteur**

On Saturday, Lady Myria LeJean finally returned to the clockmaker's, and was surprised to see how close to completion the clock was. She immediately offered to help with the work, in order to finish as quickly as possible. Of course she wanted to finish. To get out of this form as quickly as possible.

And she knew it was a lie again. What she wanted, more than anything, was to go back and sample the baker's latest creations. And deep down inside, the lizard brain knew that when the clock was finished and time stopped forever, the waferbread would be too.

So she sabotaged the clock. Day after day, in little ways, they suffered setbacks.

At the same time, she began to actually anticipate the baker's late afternoon visits. There was a… a pleasure to spending an hour or two, sipping plain water like the finest wine and eating lightly flavored wafers. After the cake episode, he steered away from food talk, and instead made what he called 'small talk' about the city and its culture and his business.

Lady LeJean discovered that 'small talk' was exactly what the words implied. The talk was about simple things. Things that didn't require her full attention but were still, well, enjoyable. And this was good, because at least half of her attention was always on the next taste explosion. Strangely, she felt she was not just enjoying the food, but also the things that went with it. The experience that wrapped around the food.

Unfortunately, during the following three days, things started to become...complicated. Lady LeJean found herself, day-by-day, swinging between highs and lows, from immense enjoyment to horror and dread. And her face started leaking. And her hair was having problems and refused to comply. And we don't even want to _begin_ to discuss the horror of her first visit to the privy...

Then the Auditors demanded a consultation.

She was in serious trouble.

* * *

><p>The "consultation" did not go well. The Auditors reviewed all the human touches she had surrounded herself with and reached a conclusion. She had obviously been corrupted beyond reliability. The clock was taking far too long to complete. The only saving grace was that they chalked it up to insanity instead of open betrayal. Lady LeJean suspected it was both.<p>

It was bad enough to be—questioned! But the Auditors compounded the horror by choosing six additional of their number to become corporate! To supervise her. She shuddered as she watch them form, both because the process was disturbing and out of fear of the result.

They were like she had been, but the fact that there were six insulated them. They could consult with each other, resist the human influences. They would not allow the bodies to make demands on them. They would be strong, they told themselves.

_We are the most stupid creatures in the universe_, she thought.

By the time they arrived at the clockmaker's shop on Baker Street, the Auditors were tired and confused by the reactions of the humans they had passed [1]. Lady LeJean was bouncing between numb with fear and more than a little smug at their distress, but the smugness fled when she saw that the clock was finished. Finished!

She introduced the Auditors automatically, speaking the required words while part of her mind raced to find some way to put off the inevitable. If she could only get the newly christened "Mr. White" to eat something, or find some way to damage the clock! But all her meager attempts to interfere failed. Instead, she could only watch in frozen horror as energy crackled through the mechanisms, wondering what it would feel like when she died.

* * *

><p><em>1 Had the Auditors been more willing to accept Myria's fashion advice, and had she been more interested in actually helping, there would probably have been no issue. But the sight of the six Auditors all wearing shades of gray and drifting along behind Myria like oversized ducklings following their mother brought more than a few stares and jeers. Morporkians do love their street theater.<em>

* * *

><p><em><em><strong>[AN BEFORE YOU REVIEW** if you are unfamiliar with Thief of Time, please note that the events in this chapter are a retelling from Myria's POV of those that occurred in that novel. I likewise can not take credit for Myria's thought about the stupidity of Auditors, which was only included to ensure story continuity. All of the interactions with the baker are wholly my own creation.]  
><em>_


	5. Renegade

**Chapter 5 – Renegade**

And the world ended.

Well not quite.

The clock glowed in the middle of the floor, painful to look at. But Myria stared, nevertheless. Then she looked around. There was a hammer lying on the floor. She considered trying to break the clock with it, and then thought better when she looked closely at what the clock was doing to the reality around itself.

She looked up to see the other Auditors staring at each other in turns, while the real humans (yes we are including the Igor in there) stood frozen in place. Except for Mr. Jeremy who looked like he was in agony and was slowly falling over.

Her body, perhaps remembering being on the receiving end of such treatment, quickly moved over and caught him, looked at the still shocked Auditors in human form, and half dragged, half ran him out of the shop. Out in Baker Street, it was a strange combination of silence and madness. Silence, because all the normal human sounds were gone. Every previously living thing was frozen in place, still as stone. Things that were in the process of flowing or falling were likewise stopped in place.

Time had stopped, but shadows moved in the streets. She blinked, and realized that Auditors by the hundreds were yielding to curiosity, taking on human bodies just as Mr. White and the others had done.

_Oh gods…this is going to be bad. I must get Mr. Jeremy off the streets._

Her mind was working furiously. She couldn't make it far, he could barely walk, but she had to get him somewhere safe nearby so she could _think_. Right now her brain was buzzing with strange chemicals. It's amazing the amount of adrenaline that can be produced when you hit sheer world-ending panic and stay there. She worked her way down Baker Street to Filigree, and finally to the Brass Bridge. There was no way she could make it all the way to her home; the streets were starting to fill up with more Auditors, and they were starting to take notice of her. But there, at the bridge, she spotted the Royal Art Museum on Lower Broadway. She _knew_ the museum. Off they went, staggering their way onto the Isle of Gods.

Thirty long minutes later, she was struggling to get Jeremy up several flights of stairs, to where she remembered the attics being. They were not normally open to the public, but she had seen a workman enter and exit behind the stuffed elephant when she had visited last. Yes, that would be out of the way. It wasn't part of the public museum. There was even a sign there that said "Absolutely No Admittance." She paused, realizing that she wasn't supposed to go there… and then the corners of her mouth turned up. In her current state, she could ignore such a command, but any 'just hatched' Auditor would naturally avoid breaking the rules.

Jeremy groaned feverishly, and she hurriedly got him under the rope and half dragged him up the narrow stairs to a large bare landing. Boxes were stacked here and there. She worked her way though packing cases and found a family, frozen in time, gathered around a dinner table there. Another blow to her sanity that she didn't need. Exhausted, she turned back to Jeremy and managed drag him over to a makeshift bed. Letting him fall into the bed, she collapsed next to it. _He does not look well_, she decided as she sat on the floor catching her breath.

At the same time her new reality began banging its metaphorically sharp-edged and mail clad fists against her mind. She was not built for this, both mentally and physically. As an Auditor, she was used to being part of a group. The only thing that had managed to keep her sane up to today was the fact that, in a way, she was still connected to it by purpose. But now, now she had betrayed her former brethren and no longer wanted anything to do with their plans. And all the humans were frozen in place…except.

She turned back to Jeremy, puzzled. What was it about _him_ that was different? When the clock started, he was obviously affected, but… not frozen.

She shook her head again, the chaos of it all assaulting her sanity, and slowly her thoughts split in two. One, a small rational corner, began considering how she would protect herself and Jeremy… who was in a way her anchor to her own 'humanity'. Another small part, that dark monkey part that ran on exotic self-produced chemicals, was beginning to quietly gibber. The rest of her seemed to vacillate on which one to listen to.

_First things first_, the rational part said, _she would need_…what? She was no _good_ at this! What do you need when the world has ended and you are trying to keep you and your only anchor to sanity alive? Food, right? Water? A weapon to protect yourself? Weapon? She didn't know how to use a weapon! The mere thought made her shake and pushed her further toward gibber-monkey territory.

She shuddered again, and pulled herself together. Food. That was it. There would be food at her home. Home. Hah. Furtively, she began working her way down through the museum. The recently corporated Auditors had not yet worked their way into the building, but she knew they would. Art was one of the things they had never fully understood, and so they would focus on it when they got their feet under them.

Once back out on Lower Broadway, she could see they were starting to get organized, and it worried her. They would recognize her, she was sure, and then what? Skirting around Pseudopolis Yard, she noticed a large group of them gathered around the horrible Mr. White. There were hundreds of them, already.

Mr. White was learning, apparently, and was doing so faster and better than she had. He was also getting angrier than she had ever seen one of her kind. She watched, transfixed, as he demanded and received a rather impressive slap across the face, and in horror as he cut off the head of the unfortunate Auditor that had complied with his demand. Then, his sharp-edged staff of office in hand, he headed for Sator Square with a mob of meek Auditors in tow.

* * *

><p>If that was the punishment being provided, she was as good as discorporated when they caught her. Quietly, she worked her way around Pseudopolis Yard to Kings Way. Finally, almost collapsing from cumulative terror and exhaustion, she made it to her house, where she quickly gathered her meager supply of wafer bread and water. She wondered, briefly, why it was that everything was frozen in time, but she could still interact with things. Then she realized that the… others… were doing the same as she was, <em>using<em> things. The objects themselves had no time of their own. She was making her own time, and forcing things she encountered to interact with her.

Gathering food and water calmed her at first, it was something to do. But then she realized again she would have to fight, to defend herself. How? There was nothing here. She would need more food too, though she had no intention of eating anytime soon after watching Mr. White deal his deadly version of discipline. Her neck actually ached with the memory of what he had done with the axe.

Head spinning with panic and adrenaline, she staggered out of her house and back up Kings Way toward Phedre Road, exploring the shops as she went. Two hours later, she was not doing well at all. She had gone into several shops and instead of a sword or even a sharpened stick, she now was prepped for battle in a sequined evening gown.

And a mink stole.

And a huge dancehall hat with enough feathers to unpluck a rather embarrassed peacock.

It wasn't her fault really. Kings Way was not exactly the armory district. The people who lived along it were more interested in fine clothing and fine dining than they were with the sort of things that made holes and gashes in people. She had also obtained a rather gaudy makeup set, now nestled in an equally gaudy and mismatched purse. She had tried to use some of the makeup, and done rather badly. She was beginning to look like a cross between a rodeo clown and a raccoon. She was losing _it_, whatever _it_ was.

The only thing that had really gone right was the knapsack. It wasn't stylish, but it was roomy and currently contained her paltry supply of food and water. It was the urge to secure more food that drove her to the Body Street bakery.

The bakery turned out to be a mistake.

Not from the standpoint of supplies, she knew it would be the only place where she could get food sufficiently bland to keep her both fed and conscious immediately afterward. The problem was she had not considered the impact of seeing the baker. Or at least, the statue of the baker. Standing behind the counter with his normal pleasant smile, somehow in its current state looking more like a horrific rictus. It hit her like a hammer, like the ground was pulled out from under her already unsteady feet. The effect was doubled because she not only was losing an anchor to sanity, she had not realized it was that anchor until it was gone. He had been…normality of a sort. He had been one of the few humans that interacted with her as if she was a person herself, beyond just the day-to-day casual business transactions that she had begun to take for granted.

She heard a strange, quiet keening sound…and realized it was her. And the pain in her knees was from striking the ground. The fingers digging into the floor were hers; the moisture falling onto the floor and the back of her hands was from her own eyes.

When she came to her senses again, she was already wandering down the street. That horrific, amazing thing that humans had, that mind, had done something to her to enable her to keep functioning. It had blocked the horror, insulated her. And made her quite mad. She realized with detachment that in the process she had filled her knapsack with the wafers from… somewhere she had just been. Best not to ask questions… hah. Hah hah.

No longer furtive, more going on reflex, she staggered toward the rear of the museum. And only made it a few steps when she realized she was being followed. She looked back, and saw three Auditors in human form, spread out behind her and quickly gaining. One look at their faces, and she knew they had learned at least one human emotion well. There was her death written in their faces.

Her instincts, immature though they were, took over and threw her through the next doorway, slamming the door shut and shoving a small display in front of it. A weapon! She must defend herself! Her eyes darted around, and she began giggling maniacally.

It was a gifts and sundry shop. Just full to the ceiling with knickknacks saying "Well Comme to Ankh MroProk!" and "Wishe Ye Werte Here!" If scarves with clever sayings, pink fuzzy riding gloves, humorous clothed figures that shed them when turned upside down had been the trick, she would have been well off. As it was, despair and panic gripped her anew and threatened to send her to darkness again.

And then the first blow pushed the door open a crack.

It was her stomach that saved her. That blasted, annoying, demanding son of a bitch of a wet, gross sack. In constant collusion with the nose, it had already been the bane of her existence. Ha. But just as the Auditors were shoving the door open, it growled loudly. Ha! HA HA! She cackled wildly as they almost forced their way in.

"Of course HA HA HA! This is HA! HA! The _PERFECT TIME TO HAVE A SNACK! HA! HAHAAAA!_" She cast her eyes about just as the hated nose got into the game as well, zeroing in on a heavenly smell.

"HAHHAHAYAAAAHHHHH!" As her hands tore into a sample display of Higgs & Meakins Luxury Assortment. Ten varieties of sheer confectionary bliss! Just think! If you are going to go down, go down with taste buds exploding and stomach full of absolutely TOXIC amounts of sugar!

Hands full of literal "death by chocolate" and headed at light speed for her watering mouth, her rolling eyes caught the sight of the three Auditors finally throwing the small display aside as they barged through the door. And her body's natural reactions took over. Instead of shoving those wondrous deadly sweets into her own mouth, her hand instinctively threw whatever it had at the approaching enemy.

Who caught them, their own eyes as wild as hers. But these three had no experience with food and little with smell. The heavenly scent of overpriced chocolate hit their noses like a sledgehammer, stopping them in their tracks. For a second they stared at their hands, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, mouths agape and drooling. Then they yielded to the inevitable.

It was over in a matter of seconds really, with nothing to show for it but the sticky remains of half-chewed chocolates on the floor and a fine powder of dust on nearby surfaces. A fraction of a second of horror/bliss as each Auditor went rigid. And then they disintegrated, tiny particles spinning away and disappearing into nothing with a faint scream that was heard via the hairs on the back of the neck.

Myria stood still, staring at the result. Then her stomach and nose grabbed her attention again. She absently brought her hand to her face, the alluring smell bedeviling her. And froze, shaking with the effort. There was… there was choc… choc… choc… There was something _brown_ on her hand…she could _smell_ it.

It might as well been blood and she a fledgling vampire.

Screaming, she staggered to the back offices to find a water pump.

When she exited the shop, she had one of its thick scarves wrapped around her face, but she swore she could still smell the cloying scent of hazelnut crunch. She had thick fuzzy riding gloves on, but she could still feel the molecules of dark chocolate stuck to her hands. There wasn't enough water to wash off the feeling.

And she had a knapsack containing the rest of Higgs & Meakins Luxury Assortment. She used up most of the chocolates getting back into the museum, the streets were crawling with Auditors and they knew exactly who and what she was.

She also decided that being insane can be rather satisfying in a vicious sort of way.

* * *

><p>Jeremy was no worse when she got back to the attic, but also no better. And he had begun mumbling. She managed to get him to drink some water, and then sat, as far from the knapsack as possible, and thought. She wasn't sure whether it was the sane or insane part that was winning, but whichever it was, it was thinking in an eerily clear fashion.<p>

She had again paused when trying to go past the "NO ADMITTANCE" sign, and that had given her an idea. She began chuckling, in a way that an Igor would have well recognized, and gathered materials to make her own.

Minutes later, she was giggling as she hung the first at the landing. "KEEP LEFT" it said, with an arrow pointing to the right.

Then there was the next one, just before the crates and boxes. "DO NOT FEED THE ELEPHANT."

She was positively cackling by the time she got to "IGNORE THIS SIGN" and "DUCK".

After she finished placing them, she went back to the attic, wrapped her arms tightly around her torso, and began rocking back and forth, alternating between weeping and giggling. Every so often, she would get makeup out and do a bit of touch-up.

A mirror would have been a treat.

So would some actual fine motor control.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, she was convinced she <em>must<em> be mad… she was starting to hear voices. Even worse, one of them had an odd echo. Even stranger she felt like she heard the echo _before_ the actual voice.

"…it's an entire band," a female voice wafted up from the direction of the hall of inappropriate animals.

"kittens dancing" Jeremy mumbled.

"…look at the little kittens dancing." the male voice responded.

"grandfather" she heard from the bed.

"…met your grandfather?" repeated the male voice.

Myria realized that she was actually hearing someone repeating Jeremy's feverish murmurings. But, that made no sense! More importantly, someone was coming this way. Myria quietly crept into the maze of boxes and crates, a deadly Hazelnut Surprise at the ready. It was all she could do not to rip the cloth from her own mouth and shove it in.

"….. my grandfather is rather fond of cats."

They were at the foot of the stairs now. But this was not how she expected Auditors to sound. Grandfather? No Auditor would have had a grandfather, nor the wit or desire to make up one.

"I should be up there," the male voice said.

"Let's not hang around, then, eh?" said the woman.

Then they began discussing Myria's signs. She recognized the female's voice, and it was an Auditor memory, not a LeJean memory. She was… Sally? Sarah? No... _Susan_. Susan Sto Helit. Death's… ah... yes, her _Grandfather._ And that meant that she and probably her companion were no more 'human' than Myria was. For some reason this hurt. Why had she been hopeful about that? But that dangerous line of thought was interrupted again as they continued working their way through her signs.

At least she would have company. That is, if Susan and her cohort didn't kill her before she could convince them she wasn't one of _them_. But of course she was, wasn't she. But she wasn't of course…but…oh gods.

The duo were making their way to the attic, she thought she heard Susan call the other one Lobsang. Lobsang? What kind of name was that for an Ankh-Morpork human? No, not human, she reminded herself, feeling another stab of sorrow.

Then Myria heard another argument farther down the stairs from Susan and Lobsang. Auditors were following them. They were leading Auditors to her! She had to do something. Should she hide? Or run? Or fight?

Self-preservation won over terror, and Myria quietly made her way through the storage area to a dark side-passage, just in time to see Susan and her companion make their way past her. It was at this moment that the only Auditor to make it past the signs came into view. Stalking past Myria with its own little world of adrenaline and madness between its ears, it confronted Susan with a _sword_.

The auditor had its back to Myria, and she was still terrified. It was a sword. A very sharp sword, and the Auditor was waving it at Susan as if it knew what to do with it.

This was the first time she had seen an Auditor other than Mr. White with an actual _weapon,_ and she knew what Mr. White had done with one of those. Her body again came to her aid, apparently deciding that fleeing or hiding were not options here and ignoring the fear gripping her. Before she knew what she was doing, she had sidled up behind the Auditor and, catching it by surprise, thrust a chocolate in its gaping mouth, with the expected result.

Susan and Lobsang stared in shock as the Auditor dissolved to dust, then a few moments more at the space where it had been, and then focused on Myria. Gradually, Susan's stare turned into a glare.

"You're a... you can't be a... what are you?" Susan demanded.

* * *

><p>Later, Myria considered the insanity that followed. First, Susan had explained that Jeremy was somehow a reflection of Lobsang. She had watched in shock as one touched the other and they cancelled out, or combined, or something. Mourning the loss, Myria had no choice but to follow Susan through the streets of Ankh-Morpork seeking more ammunition, which they found. But Myria needed not just ammunition, but understanding, and she did not get that from Susan.<p>

Then they had found a strange little man who called himself a History Monk, who seemed to think he knew exactly what was going on. And Susan, claiming to be accompanied by a now non-physical Mr. Lobsang/Jeremy, had destroyed the clock. The rest was such a blur that she was unsure what was real and what was her own mad ravings. Had there been a mammoth? Giant rotating columns storing time? Did Jeremy return? Or was it Lobsang? Had time begun flowing again? All she knew for a fact was that because of the clock being destroyed, history had fractured... again. And somehow the being that Mr. Lobsang/Jeremy had become had repaired it, but then he had left them, to both their regret.

As a result, days, or an eternity, or a fevered instant later, Myria found herself standing with Susan in the mountains near the Hub, discussing the end of things, and the beginning. They had discussed Jeremy and Lobsang, and the subject had seemed to make Susan angry even as it hurt Myria.

In a pause in the conversation, Myria became lost in the chaos behind her eyes, dwelling on her own sorrows. And in the darkness behind the eyes, darker cloaked shapes appeared and whispered despair.

_You abandoned your kind. You are a renegade._

_You betrayed your kind. You are a traitor._

_You killed your kind. You are a murderer._

_I am not one of you, she whispered in the darkness of her mind._

_Then what are you? You are not one of them._

An image formed in her mind, Jeremy lying in the bed in the attic then vanishing into light when the other one touched him.

"_That was my last friend…"_

_That one no longer exists. In all the vastness of time and space, the only being that remains to you is this one beside you._

Another memory image, of Susan glaring at her and speaking hurtful words: _"What are you? I didn't think your kind had friends." she had said. And the most cutting "Not 'just Susan.' It's Miss Susan. I'm only 'just Susan' to my friends, and you are not one of them. I don't trust you at all."_

_The only person who might understand me, and she hates me. I truly am alone, and the universe is so very very large._

"What are you going to do now?" Susan said, somehow cutting through the darkness.

Myria struggled to focus. "I do not know."

"Well, if I can help in any way..."

"Thank you. You can, indeed, help. I wish to do something human."

"Uh, fine, if—"

"I wish to die."

And from the sky, five horsemen galloped to take them back to Ankh-Morpork. Chaos, to match her thoughts. Pestilence, for she was little more than an uninvited guest. War, which had left its scars upon her. Famine, as she hungered for things she could not have.

And Susan's grandfather, Death, soon to be an intimate acquaintance.

* * *

><p>Somewhere that could only exist through the machinations of Chaos, three beings stood. One the aforementioned horseman. The second a tall skeletal figure, well known to all.<p>

And the third, a being that once was an Auditor but could be human. Whose only crime was being neither.

And in the midst of them all, a giant vat. Thousands of gallons of sugar, fondant, and the richest dark chocolate. Summoning what dignity she could muster, Myria asked Death to remember her to his granddaughter and with a certain flair dove headfirst into the deadly concoction. For a moment, her body was suffused with ecstasy as the deadly stuff saturated her senses.

The more seductive bliss of nothingness claimed her for an eternal moment until, breaking free of the cursed body but somehow not destroyed in the process, the essence of the Auditor rose from its sugary grave.

"But... I died," said the Auditor.

YES, said Death. THIS IS THE NEXT PART.

And darkness consumed it.

* * *

><p><em><em><strong>[AN BEFORE YOU REVIEW** if you are unfamiliar with Thief of Time, please note that in that novel Pratchett skips over almost everything that happens here, telling the story from Susan/Lobsang's perspective, and only vaguely alludes to what must have occurred before they discover Myria in the attic. The scene with the giant vat of chocolate is his creation, my version here is again only a retelling from Myria's perspective (which required repeating the dialogue) to ensure continuity. THIS is where Thief of Time ends, and all the remaining chapters contain dialogue and plot elements that do not appear in Pratchett's work (though of course, his characters mannerisms, traits, and speech patterns are preserved.]__


	6. The Next Part

**Chapter 6 – The Next Part**

Myria woke with a gasp as she almost fell off Chaos's horse. And then she almost fell off again when she realized where she was. Gods she had… she had just died! Or did that not happen? There was a giant vat of dark chocolate, with fondant sugar cream, and... and hazelnut praline in rich butter cream. But that was impossible wasn't it? But it had been so real. She swore she could taste and feel the chocolate!

Was she alive? She slowly turned her eyes to Death riding on his white horse only a few arms-lengths away, Susan seated behind him.

Death's head was toward her, regarding her intently but professionally. Susan seemed simply lost in thought.

YES, THIS IS THE NEXT PART was rattling around in Myria's head.

Was it just another madness-induced hallucination? She looked at Death again, but he was no longer looking at her. Her body was perched behind the personification of Chaos, but inside the prison of her own head, Myria was still breaking down.

It had all been too much. She had lost her purpose when the clock had been finished, after that it had just been the body's instinctive need to survive. She had lost her kind, she was no longer part of the 'we' of the Auditors and didn't want to be. In fact she had betrayed them, helping their enemies, even murdered hundreds of them at this point. Which would have been fine, she supposed, if she had been human. It would have been war, us against them.

Or maybe that justification was due to War, riding near enough to be rubbing off on her.

And then there was everything else. She had also lost her friend Mr. Jeremy, if he had even been a friend. She thought he had, but since she had never had one, who could be sure. Now she was alone. The closest thing in the world she had to a being like her, who might understand her, was Susan.

And she was aware enough to realize that, on some level, Susan really didn't like her very much. Oh, Susan didn't do it on purpose, but things slipped out between the cracks. She remembered how Susan had first reacted to her, and it stayed with her.

* * *

><p>Myria was wearing shredded clothes, was scratched and bruised, and made up like an ugly caricature of a human. By the time they arrived in front of her leased house on Kings Way, that was exactly how she felt inside as well. Chaos took his leave quickly, muttering something about the milk delivery. Susan said goodbye to her Grandfather, who peered at Myria knowingly for a few seconds, then wished her well.<p>

Susan and Myria stood in front of her door.

"Well…" said Susan.

"Yes."

"I don't suppose you have reconsidered." Susan paused, apparently struggling between her dislike and a modicum of pity.

"Why?" Myria shook her head slowly.

Susan looked at her, dumbfounded. She didn't need this. She _really_ didn't need this. She didn't even _like_ it, she, ok _Myria_. This was not her problem. She was _not_ a people person, damn it! And now she was going to have to talk someone out of… well it wasn't really suicide was it? Because she wasn't really human right? Then again…

"Myria, listen…you don't want to… Look, we won. Everything is fixed. You can go on with…" Her words failed her, and she got an inkling of the problem.

"That is the point, what else is there?" said Myria. "What am I? Where do I belong? This is not my home, it is just some house I stayed in while I…" _plotted to destroy humanity and all life in the cosmos_… she finished silently.

Myria shook her head. Tears began running down her face, making an absolute disaster of mascara that had never been far from it anyway. Oh gods, Susan was not equipped for this. Myria went on, "Think about it Susan. You are outside humanity too, but at least you grew up in this. You had a family and you still have your Grandfather."

"Well, that is actually very complicated." Susan interrupted.

"Yes, but you still have _someone_. And you had a lifetime getting here to come to terms with all it means to be human."

"Mostly human. _I_ have to work at it." Susan was getting angry. This was not going to turn into a conversation about her. She had her own raw spots to scratch at later. "Look…" Susan began. "Ok, so you have been thrown into this. Yes you have not had a childhood to understand how to…" She paused. What arguments did she have that would work here? She could not even convince herself that Myria was wrong, how was she supposed to convince Myria? All she had was a vague instinctive feeling that Myria was not right.

She was going to lose this argument. And she was not fond of losing. She wasn't very good at it, because she seldom allowed it.

Then she saw Myria's face change.

Myria's eyes went round, along with her mouth. Her hands started to rise, shaking. She looked absolutely horrified.

Susan jerked around, assuming from the reaction that some Auditors, or an aberration from stitching time back together, or maybe even one of Grandfather's crew was coming up the street. Instead, she saw an average, plainly dressed human walking a good clip down the cobblestones. She couldn't even be sure he was coming to them, though he did seem very purposeful and focused on something in their direction. She turned back to Myria.

Who was looking frantic. Her eyes darted down to her shredded dress, to Susan's face, to the man. Her left hand was patting her face and hair, and her right was grabbing a handful of grease-encrusted clothing. "No…no...nonono…"

What the blazes? "Myria, are you alright? Who is he?"

"He can not… he can not see me like this!" Myria's tone was panicked.

Susan thought she recognized that tone. "What? Who is he?"

"Jo….the baker! He is the baker! He brings me things, and…" she sobbed. "He can not… I... look at me!" Myria wailed, and fled into the house. Susan heard the locks turn and bolts close.

Oh ho! Now that reaction, that was one she understood completely. Poor Myria, all alone. No family, no anchor to humanity eh? She smiled grimly. Oh yes. Poor thing, you are as caught as the rest of us, you just haven't figured it out yet.

A gleam in her eye, she moved to intercept the baker. If her guess was right, Myria wouldn't do anything foolish... well nothing permanently and mortally foolish. What she would probably be doing was furiously scrubbing off makeup and grime.

And perhaps burning the clothing.

* * *

><p>The baker looked rushed, and worried. And he hailed Susan as soon as he neared within speaking distance.<p>

"Excuse me, miss?"

"Yes. And you are the baker, I suppose?"

"Er…yes. Was that Myr… Lady LeJean? She looked unwell! Is she well? I had strange news and I was very worried about her. Did you speak with her? I should check on her." He seemed about to bolt or freeze up, torn between getting information from Susan and charging Myria's door. Hmm…

"Mr. Baker, please, calm down. Lady LeJean is fine, she is just out of sorts. She… was spooked by a… by a horse and her clothing was soiled, but she is fine, soon to be better, I assure you."

This seemed to calm Jonathon a bit. But he was still worried.

"Thank you, er, miss?"

"Sto Helit."

"Yes, Miss…Sto" his eyes went round as plates. "My apologies, my lady! I didn't realize. You must have been helping Lady LeJean when she fell?"

Susan looked at her own clothing, which was covered in grime and dirt as well, though much more suitable to the task it had been through than Myria's. Hah, good thing she wasn't overly vain, though it did pain her a bit. "Y-yess…it was… hectic. Please, be at ease, I am not on the job, as it were. I am merely a teacher in this city. Do continue."

"Of course, my lady. I had just finished making something for Lady LeJean, and suddenly I felt strange, and I turned around and they were all gone! And there had been no one in the shop! So you see, I hurried here to see that she was well."

"I see, and why did you think she might not be well?"

He paused, seeming to consider her carefully. "You are a friend of Lady LeJean's, I suppose? Do you know her well?"

Susan opened her mouth, considered her words carefully. "I… know her better than anyone else. We have some things in common. Perhaps we are becoming friends as well." That was a stretch, but maybe not a far one. It seemed to satisfy him.

"Then you know she is a bit, eccentric, my lady. She…she needs someone to look after her, you know. Did you notice, she lives alone in that house with no servants? None! Perhaps it's not my place, but…well, I admit I worry for her."

"I see. Again do continue. And please, call me Miss Susan." Susan was smirking inside. Oh, this was going to be good. And the faster he forgot the whole my lady thing, the better.

"Yes, you see, begging your pardon, my la...Miss Susan. I know she seems to be very… reserved at first…"

"I believe the word you were looking for was haughty." Susan supplied helpfully.

He looked shocked and stammered, "Well…I…I would not."

"It's fine, do go on."

"Yes, well miss, when you know her a bit, as I'm sure you do, you find that she is really rather fragile. She… it's as if she has been sheltered you see. She should have someone to look out for her."

"Yes, I do see your point. And I can't say that I disagree." Susan nodded. "Yes, indeed. But how does this relate to the mysteriously disappearing baked goods?" After dealing with a classroom containing Jason and Penelope, failing to get derailed by a baker was amateur night.

"Ah..." he looked embarrassed. "You are going to think me mad."

"Trust me, you would be amazed at what I am willing to believe."

He paused again, glanced past her at the house again.

"Well, strange things happen around her. Once I was sure she floated, you see. Of course it must have been my imagination," he quickly added, flushing. He was probably expecting some derisive response. "And then, the first time she came by my shop, she ate some fresh bread."

"Would I be wrong in thinking she had a rather dramatic and unusual reaction, good baker?"

His eyes widened again. "Yes! She… I thought she was having a reaction, or that something had gone wrong with the bread. She even went… strange at one point, like looking through a fogged window."

Oh dear…that was a close one. And could have been disastrous. The poor baker almost doomed the world with his fresh yeast goods. She chuckled a bit inside. Stranger and stranger.

"And so, you have since been making specially prepared items… quite bland I assume, for…_Myria,_" she placed emphasis on the word and saw his ears redden a bit, "and perhaps delivering them to her personally, I presume?" She took his reaction as a definite yes. "And in the process, you took it upon yourself to keep an eye on her, make sure she was well."

He looked at his feet. "Well miss, I realize it isn't my place. But…" His voice wavered a bit and he looked up. Oh dear, Susan thought, the young man is absolutely smitten. "Yes, she should not be alone, miss. Why does she have no servants? Something could happen to her."

Yes, and practically everything has, Susan thought. And now the rest seems to be about to happen. The man had all the classic signs, and had them bad. And he seemed to know, on some sort of visceral level that "Lady LeJean" was not quite – normal. He might not put it into words, for fear of sounding ridiculous or insane, but he knew quite well that if something happened like magically disappearing pastries, then the first thing to do was drop his baking and hurry over to check on Myria. Wow…it was, sweet. Almost nauseatingly so. She allowed herself a little of her own bitter pity to seep out. Well at least one of them might get the boy in the end. Hers seemed to have gone the other direction.

"Mister Baker…may I address you by your familiar name?"

"Of course, miss. Jonathon Knäcke, if you wish."

"Thank you, Jonathon. I need to tell you some things, and I want you to keep an open mind."

* * *

><p>An hour later, Jonathon stood before Myria's door, head spinning. Oh, Susan had not told him everything, he could tell that by some of the pauses. She wanted him forewarned, but she didn't want to send him screaming down the street. So she told... partial truths. About how Myria had not really had much of a childhood (hah!) and was hopelessly naïve about many things. About how she had special conditions, possibly magical in nature, where intense experiences could have some very negative, even mortal, consequences.<p>

And especially, that Myria needed a friend more than anyone else on the Disc did.

"But aren't you her friend?" he had asked. "I know you didn't say so, but you are taking the time to help her now, and you helped her when the horse startled her."

"Hor… ah yes, the horse. Yes, I suppose I am. I'm not exactly the best person to… to ground her as it were." And watching the two of you week by week will likely have me grinding my teeth and wishing for bags of rabid weasels to throw at you.

"Oh. But…"

"But me no buts." Susan said, putting on her teacher voice, which had the desired effect. "Now, I have a requirement of you, and it's going to be difficult."

"Yes, ma'am." He was actually digging his toe in the dirt. Hah, she hadn't lost her touch.

"You will go up there, and you will knock on the door, and when she answers you will not call her Lady LeJean, nor Lady Myria LeJean, nor My Lady, nor milady, nor even miss."

He looked at her in disbelief. "But…"

"But me no buts! If you are going to do her any good at all, you need to be her friend. And that means enough of all this 'above your station' claptrap and rigamarole." Susan liked those words, she didn't get to use them nearly often enough. "You will address her as Myria. Don't look so horrified, it _is_ her name. Tut! No arguments. Nod your head. Yes. Good. There you go. Was that so hard?"

"You can stop nodding now."


	7. A Fine Mess

**Chapter 7 – A Fine Mess**

And so here he was. Susan had taken her leave, patting the bewildered Jonathon on the shoulder and assuring him everything would work out and leaving him with a card titled "Learning Through Play School – Susan Sto Helit, Instructor" and admonished him to contact her if things got out of hand.

He knocked on the door.

And waited. She was home, he knew she was. He had seen her go inside.

He knocked again, a bit more insistently.

He waited another minute, then knelt down to the letter slot. I'm not going to just wait out here like this, he grimly told himself. I know she is upset, Susan told me, and she is not going to sit in there alone and stew in it. Letting her do that is not what I should do.

"Myria, it's…it's Jonathon, Jonathon Knäcke. Let me in."

Silence.

"Myria, I know you have been through some…things. Miss Susan told me some of what happened."

He thought he heard a sob through the door, though it was hard to tell. "You aren't alone you know. I… I care what happens to you. I would not have said," _but Susan threatened me with bodily injury_ "but I would very much like to be your friend Myria." He was sure he heard a gasp this time. She had to be just inside the door.

"Let me in, Myria. You don't have to be inside there by yourself."

That was what did it. He was talking about the room, the house. But that isn't what she heard. She wasn't living in the house or the room. She was living in the dark emptiness behind her eyes, cut off from everything and everyone else. His words were a floating branch to a drowning man, and she clung to it with every ounce of will and sanity she had left. Tears streaming, she reached up from the floor and unlocked the door, one bolt at a time, then slumped back next to it, wrapping her arms around herself with eyes closed.

Jonathon entered slowly. She felt and heard the door open and close. He locked it, which was somehow a comfort. Then he was kneeling in front of her; she could sense him there. She opened her eyes and saw in his face… concern, she thought. Pity? Fear? She was still not good at reading faces sometimes.

"Myria, don't… don't cry. It's ok. Oh my, you are all banged up, aren't you." He held out his hands. "A horse eh? I don't think that is from falling, and I don't think there was any horse, was there?" Myria blinked at him.

"Wha…" she croaked, swallowed. "What did Susan tell you?"

"Probably just enough, but I suspect not nearly the whole truth."

She kept her arms folded. "If you knew the truth, you would not want to be my friend, you would not even want to know me." She shivered. She didn't believe he would stay, but her eyes had an unspoken plea. It almost broke his heart.

"We can worry about that later. Right now, let's get you off the floor, _milady_." He gave a crooked grin when he said that, unlike his former deference. Tugging at her arms, he got her hands free and pulled her to her feet, helping her to the sofa. He smiled again as he looked over the drawing room, empty except for the plain sofa, a couple of chairs and a table. And the painting. His smile broadened. It was a remarkably bad painting. But he had not commented on it before. If he had known it was an attempt to copy a portrait from the royal museum, he would have been either amused or horrified.

The feral tom that was periodically present appeared to want no part in her emotional breakdown and was nowhere to be seen. That's cats for you. Myria on the other hand was a mess, he had to admit. Of course had he seen her up close two hours earlier, he would have thought this a huge improvement. Now she just looked ill-used. She was dressed plainly, probably overcompensating for her earlier excesses. Her normally straight black hair for instance had the hinted beginnings of tangles. Her face was pale with sorrow instead of her normal alabaster beauty, except for her eyes and nose, which were red-tinged. He gathered the white throw from the back of the chair and tucked her into the corner of the sofa, pulled out his own kerchief, and wiped her cheeks and held it in front of her.

"Blow."

She looked at him..."Whuh?"

"Blow… your nose, trust me you'll feel better." She just looked at him. "Gods, _air,_ Myria, close your mouth and blow _air_ out through your nose." She considered his words, shrugged a bit, and did as he said. And remarkably felt slightly better. Bodies are just stupid, she decided. They leak fluids whenever they get worked up, and make a mess of everything. What good can it possibly do you to leak water from your eyes? She said as much.

He stared at her, gooey kerchief in one hand, and thought two things, one that it was a strange question, and worded strangely too. The other was "Er, well… that is a good question. I'd never thought of it. I suppose I always thought it was just… just what happened. It doesn't have to have a reason does it?" He looked thoughtful again. "Of course, it does accomplish something."

"What good can it possibly do?"

"Well, on the one hand, I think it helps kind of get the emotions out. You know, keeps 'em from bottling up in there. It's a miserable man that has to sit and stew in his own sorrows. And on the other hand, a lady crying her eyes out… that's like a magnet for a friend to come tend to her. See what can be done." He smiled, and an ache in her chest eased a bit.

"I – I see. Yes, I understand. It is a communication thing. Yes, and so you are taking care of me because I was distressed."

"Well yes, but not just because you were crying. I came to see you before I knew that, you know."

She tilted her head to one side. "You called me Myria. You never called me that before."

"Well, I was told on good authority that friends did not call each other 'My Lady'," _and on pain of…well pain_. "You are not cross with me, are you?"

"No!" she looked alarmed. "No, of course not. I do not mind at all. I think I enjoy it actually. But I meant what I said, you should not want to be my friend. I don't know how to be a friend. I'm not even who you think I am." She seemed close to crying again.

Sometimes, the proper and intelligent thing to do is not the thing to do. The logical thing would be to agree that he didn't know all about her, that he wasn't a hundred percent sure who or what she was. He knew Susan had held back things, but he didn't believe she meant to harm him. The proper and intelligent thing to do was to explain all that, and work through it all.

Humans are not proper and intelligent creatures in general. And that is because often, being improper and rather dumb works better in a pinch. They can also be impulsive. He had been lying to himself and to Susan; that he wanted to be a friend. The truth was he had a rather unhealthy dose of infatuation.

So he told the truth and he lied, without words and without letting his common sense get in the way. He leaned in quickly and gave her a most chaste and gentle kiss. In all frankness, as fairy tale kisses go it was pretty sad. The merest brush of closed lips. "Shush, Myria."

And she did.

She had little choice. When he had moved his face toward her, she'd had no idea what to expect, but something in the back of her mind did. It might have been fight or flight, but it turned out there was a third built-in option. Her eyes closed of their own accord. Her breathing slowed, and she felt… exquisite. A sensation like fire, like…like chocolate smelled, like the fresh bread had tasted, roared across her lips and seared through her. Fireworks exploded into her mind and she sat still, forgetting to breathe, as she watched the pretty lights in the darkness.

But she wasn't alone. Even in the darkness behind the eyes, she could feel his presence next to her, and a warmth spread through her. She opened her eyes and realized only a few seconds had passed and he was looking at her carefully, appearing a bit flushed himself.

"Um…better?" Now it was his turn to consider whether to kill himself.

She looked at him, felt a giggle coming on, and instead grabbed his head in both hands and tried to kiss him back…and…

"Oh dear… I think you may have overdone it, Myria." He shook her a bit. "Myria?" Yep, out cold just like that first time with the bread, but smiling, and she was breathing and no fuzziness. He leaned back and let out a slow shuddered breath. Then he smiled and shook his head. "I think I may have bypassed the whole 'friendship' bit, Miss Susan. Hope you don't mind terribly." Laughing at himself, he arranged Myria more comfortably, and retucked the blanket around her. He found her knapsack and discovered to his wonder the tin he had given her earlier contained…hmm…the wafer batch he had just finished that afternoon. Well, well, well.

Then he curled up in a nearby chair, and dozed off himself.


	8. Taking Leave

**Chapter 8 – Taking Leave**

It was dark when he opened his eyes. No lamps had been lit, and the sun had finished setting. As his eyes adjusted, he could see, inches away, Myria sitting on the floor just in front of his chair. She was looking at him, he could just make out her eyes.

"Myria?" he murmured.

She sighed. He tried again.

"Er... Myria, why are you sitting there?"

"I did not want to bother you." She murmured back. They were both speaking quietly. Why do people do that when it's dark? "I just wanted to look at you. I like looking at you." She paused. "That is alright? You would tell me if it was not acceptable?"

He smiled, and watched her lips turn upward in the near-dark as well. "Yes, I would. But isn't it hard to see in the dark?"

She seemed confused for a moment. "Oh… I- I guess I have… very good eyesight. I had not realized." The truth was, she had cheated, without even thinking about it. Her eyes were as good as a feline's at night just now. She had to remember not to do… abnormal things.

He realized that her eyes had a sheen to them, almost like a cat's. "You did something to your eyes, didn't you?" He started to frown, then reconsidered and let one corner of his mouth tilt up a bit further.

"What is that, that you are doing with one side of your mouth?"

"Ah… that, that is a little bit of a smirk."

"Is it a good thing?"

"It depends on the person and the situation." He paused. "Um, probably you have to look at what the rest of their face is doing."

"Your eyes are smiling."

"Very good. I suppose you could call it that. And you are avoiding my question, Myria."

She sighed again, and this time he caught on and interrupted her. "Are you going to sigh like that every time I say your name?" The grin got wider.

"It makes me feel, nice, when you do it. It did not when Susan called me that. It did not, before, when you said it. Why is that?"

Oh boy… "That is another long discussion, _my lady_." He chuckled. "It's probably something to do with why you fainted. And you _still_ haven't answered my question, and I won't say your name any more unless you do."

She hesitated again. "Ye-es. I did – something – to my eyes. Are you upset with me? You do not look upset. I do not want you to think I am strange, I just was not thinking."

He took her hand and patted it gently. "Myria – don't sigh – I know you are not normal, and I like you that way. So please, don't worry. I should be the one having problems right now."

"Why?"

"Because, in case you haven't noticed, I am about four big rungs down on the social ladder from you. None of what I have done is even close to proper or socially acceptable. Probably the only person in Ankh Morpork who would approve is the Commander of the City Watch." He chuckled.

"Hmm… so it is a problem that I am… _Lady_ LeJean?"

"That depends, on whether…" He took a deep breath. "…you decide that what happened earlier was not welcome, or that you don't wish to be seen with a tradesman for a… very good friend." Maybe he should not try for any subtlety at all. "Myria, do you know much about relationships?"

Myria giggled. She actually giggled like a schoolgirl. "I think I know that friends do not kiss on the lips, though I do not understand why. It was… almost as good as chocolate."

He laughed at that. "Yes, well, that's one reason, I guess. If everyone went around kissing everyone, nobody would ever get anything else done." And people would get jealous. Hmm…"So how would you feel if I kissed another woma. - " –smack–

"Ow…"

"I am sorry!" She was horrified. "I am sorry! I- I do not know what happened and my hand…"

Jon chuckled softly, rubbing his face a bit. "Yes, well, I think we can safely say that you know _something_ about relationships."

It took a few more minutes to convince her he wasn't angry about the whole slapping thing. It helped that she seemed happy because she thought she knew about relationships. At least something about relationships. I mean, all those poems and things couldn't be totally wrong, right?

After a bit more coaxing, she found and lit the lamp. It was well after nightfall and he was hungry, but he was more interested in the change in Myria's state. She was, frankly, bubbly and almost alarmingly focused on him. She searched his face constantly when he spoke. What she was doing of course was trying to build a whole new language from scratch. This was different from the 'small talk' she had experienced before with Jonathon. The closest thing to it had been some of her previous conversations with Mr. Jeremy, and that had been pretty one-sided. There is a big difference between not understanding someone's reaction to you at all while vaguely being aware that they are doing things with their face, and having a specific goal in mind and carefully watching their expressions to divine the reaction.

She munched on his latest creations, and he smiled at how much she enjoyed them. Good grief, there was barely any flavor in them at all. He might as well have waved a dried basil leaf over the dough. But she loved it, and even better, she could eat them without being distracted by the flavor while still savoring it. And gods only knew how she lived off so little, but she didn't appear to be wasting away. Surely she ate other things at other times, but what?

Afterward, he asked her to show him around the house and received his next real shock. He had previously only seen the sitting room really. The reality was that the house was large enough for four or five families, and it was mostly empty. She animatedly walked him from empty room to empty room, lighting candles and lamps as they went and pointing out the size of the rooms, potential uses, number and size of windows, composition of the flooring and wall covering. It was strange of course, she seemed to have little interest or understanding in how decorations and furniture could make a house feel… well like a home you lived in.

The actual bedroom she used, and she didn't seem to have any qualms at all about him seeing it or being in it, consisted of only a single bed, made up so tight you could bounce elephants off it, and a simple bedside table. The closet contained a handful of very expensive and very elegant outfits, all in shades of black, white, and gray.

Returning back to the ground floors, he found that the kitchens were practically unused. The larder consisted primarily of food for the cat and what few things he had brought her but no real human food. The dining room was unfurnished.

In fact, other than her bedroom, the sitting room, which had up to now been the only room he had visited, was also the only room with any furnishings at all. And he also realized that except for the painting she had been working on, the meager furnishings were all white, gray, or at best a pale cream. Of course, it was a rented house, and she had only been here for a week. But somehow he expected more… personalization. That was it. It didn't feel _lived in_ except for this one room.

But now it really was getting late, and he needed to get back to his shop and have dinner himself. Myria seemed to be doing much better. In fact she was almost giddy, which was itself slightly unsettling. Before today, in all his interactions she had been… well reserved at first of course. And then pleasant. Proper and pleasant.

"Myria, I really should be going. I need to have dinner, and I need to make sure the shop is… ooof!" Ooof, for those unaware of it, is the universal sound of 'you have just been tackled by a person half your weight who is now panicked'.

"You will take me with you?" she pleaded, her arms tangled around him, pinning his to his side. Her face was buried in his neck, muffling her words a bit, but he caught the desperation in the tone. "Please, you must."

Jonathon was shocked, this was not what he expected. "Well, of course, if you really want you can come with me. I- I guess we could have a coach bring you back home afterward, but it will be rather late."

But this did not have the desired effect either. She froze for a moment, then pulled her face back, moved her hands to his shoulders, and stared at him. Her face had paled again. Good grief, she looked like she'd seen death itself! Her mouth worked for a moment. "You won't come back with me? Is something wrong with the house? I can move! I have gold. We could… we could buy…" She was shaking.

"Myria! Stop! Myria the house is fine. But I can't come back here tonight."

She swallowed, choking down her distress enough to think. Her mind was betraying her again, trying to come to grips with things and instead sliding from one slippery fear to another. "But… I can't stay here alone. You don't understand."

Oh gods… this was impossible. That was impossible of course. It could not be done at all because. Because. "But… Myria you are a lady of status, and my family would think I was insane. It wouldn't be proper to have a man stay overnight here, with no one in the house to chaperone, no servants. People would talk."

"Then…then I could stay with you at the bakery?" She managed in a small voice. Her eyes were bright with tears. He was handling this badly, he suspected. His earlier explanation had seemed a nice idea before; about tears being a distress signal of sorts. But he found now that they were far too effective.

"I- I don't… It really isn't a fit place for you. I mean, it isn't nearly as nice as this," he added hurriedly. He was beginning to anticipate how she would take some things the wrong way, at least.

That sank in. He was talking about Protocol. She had tried to use it on Mr. White, and it had almost worked. Auditors knew about rules, and so did humans. She knew that if Jonathon said something "wasn't done" then there might be a reason for that. But humans were also good at knowing when it was important to tell Protocol to shove it. She had to make him understand! She couldn't keep swinging between this giddiness and terror. She had to find some solid ground!

She moved her face closer to his. "You do not understand…" she half whispered, half hissed. "Susan could not have told you how terrified I am." Jonathon blinked at the change in her demeanor. She was deadly serious, her teeth clenched together, but her eyes were still brimming. "Did she tell you, about waking up in the middle of the night so terrified that you wished you would die? Did she tell you about what it is like to really be alone inside your own head?" She was shaking now. Her long fingers dug into his shoulders. "I understand Protocol, I know things are _just not done_. But I am not ready to be alone yet. I need you to be my friend. To understand. Can you understand? I am sorry I am difficult." She searched his eyes. "I think I am still quite mad, but I want to be better."

Jonathon, for his part, was dumbfounded. No, Susan had not been able to get this across. Ankh Morpork was not the most enlightened place for someone with 'little ways'. Oh, some of the guilds would overlook a lot of quirkiness, and the alchemists were all quite insane by his personal measure. Hah, most of the wizards were too. But Myria was obviously perched on a precarious ledge here, and one thing that Susan had made clear was that she needed someone to anchor her.

O..kayyy… Jonny boy, you have found your dream girl and she is beautiful and fragile as a colored glass rose you'd get on Cunning Artificers. He took a deep breath and forced a smile.

And she might as well have seen salvation in that simple gesture. Human bodies were incredible. She began to shake again, but this time it was from relief. "You have an idea?" She whispered. "I can see it in your face." She was flying on hope. He could probably have founded a religion based on it, with himself as high priest. Of course, Io would probably have him struck down by lightning within hours, but still it was a heady feeling to have that much faith focused on you.

"Yes, I do. And I want you to trust me, ok? I promise that whenever this sort of feeling happens, I will listen to you, and we will figure out how to deal with these… situations. Ok? You don't have to be terrified every time something seems about to go wrong." She nodded frantically. "Ok, good. Now, you and I are going to get something for me to eat before I pass out from hunger. And we are going to go back to my shop." More nodding. "And we are going to put you in a bed there." And find a cot or something for me. And not light any lamps so you can't see the mess. Oh gods, and find a way to sneak off and explain this to my uncle upstairs before his family gets up and things get really complicated.

"Everything is going to be fine," he lied. But it was a nice lie. And the briefest and most chaste kiss afterward was nice too. It only took a minute before she was steady enough to grab a few items for the walk down Kings Way. But she clung to his arm the whole way; he was going to have a nice bruise the next day.


	9. A Shiny Conundrum

**Chapter 9 – A Shiny Conundrum**

"Nnngghhhh."

The sacrifices we make for those we… care about. He wouldn't say the "l" word, he wasn't sure either of them were anywhere near that. But he definitely felt.. fond… of her.

Right now, it was a pain in the neck. And the back. In fact, he hurt pretty much all over from sleeping on the thin pad on a very hard floor. It had not been an easy night.

First he had stuffed himself as quickly as possible. He was starving! Myria had insisted on sitting with him, and had been by turns fascinated and horrified. If he hadn't been so hungry, some of her facial expressions would have put him off his dinner.

Then had come the part he dreaded, explaining things to his uncle Pars. That had gone strangely well. His uncle had listened to him stutter through a summary of the day's events with practically no expression. When Jonathon told him the quandary he was in, his uncle had actually laughed. Laughed!

"Jonny, I have loved you like my own son since your father died. But there are days I think you used all your brains on your recipes and left none for anything else." This was not at all what Jonathon had expected, and it showed in his expression.

"Jonny boy understand, nobody, and I mean nobody, will believe that a posh society lady like our Lady LeJean ever spent the night above a bakeshop. Now, if you had stayed there, tongues would have been wagging up and down King's Way for weeks." He chuckled to himself. "But as it stands, she can sleep in your room and none the wiser." Again with a twinkle in his eye. "Of course, I 'spect you will handle yourself as your dear father, bless his bones, would have expected. I'll get you some blankets, and you can sleep on the floor."

Jon was left standing with his mouth agape. His uncle threw a final remark over his shoulder. "Thank me now, you probably won't by morning."

Jon awoke feeling like he had been dragged behind a coach. The pallet was hard, for one thing. For another, Myria's hand kept wandering over to his arm in the night and sinking her fingernails into it! Around two in the morning she had come half awake in a terror, her mouth wide open trying to scream but unable to get any sound out. That had scared the night soil out of Jon. It had taken several terrified seconds to get her to breathe, and the better part of an hour before they worked through the sobs and got her calm enough to lie down again.

Now it was well and truly morning, and he was already behind on the baking. "Hrrggg.." He groaned as he rolled over, working some of the ache out of his neck, and looked at an empty bed. And panicked.

He had to have been quite a sight as he flung himself down the stairs into the bakery. Wild-eyed, stiff, and wearing the clothes he'd slept in, he staggered into… a busy bakery full of customers, with his uncle's family in full swing and Myria… looking fresh as a daisy damn her, sitting behind the counter chatting animatedly with his uncle Pars like they were old friends.

"Jonathon!" she laughed as she scurried around the counter toward him. The rest of the room had expressions ranging from shock at his state to amusement. Uncle Pars just rolled his eyes and motioned him to go back upstairs. Myria followed him.

Once upstairs, she smiled at him again, and then frowned. "Jonathon, you look… unwell. Did you not enjoy your extra sleep? I did not want to wake you, and Uncle Pars said you would be better for the extra rest."

"Extra…?" Argh. Jon took a deep breath and let it out. "Ah, yes. Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you." I am NOT sleeping on the floor again though. Then he managed to get past his own misery and consider her appearance as well.

Fresh as a daisy? Well not quite. She was obviously happy, and better rested than he was somehow. But her straight black hair was gone, replaced by a dark frizzy mass. And her alabaster skin still had the shadows of what looked to be poorly applied makeup on it. Her clothes were actually quite elegant, but it was clear she had slept in them. Hmm…

She continued to wait for him to finish his thought, putting on what he would have called a "game smile" that was hopeful but not quite sure which way things were going.

"Ok, here is what we are going to do. First off, you go back downstairs and enjoy yourself. I am going to have a word with my cousin Jessica. I think you deserve a bit of pampering." Her eyes lit up at that. "Now, do you have any money easily available?"

She looked thoughtful, and dug in the recesses of her dress, pulling out a small purse from which she extracted.

"Gahhh…!" He said, and she almost dropped the small gold bar in surprise. He grabbed her hands and the bar, shoving it back in the bag. "Have you been carrying that around everywhere?"

"Well, I used to have more, but I spent some on the hotel and the house. Is it not enough?" She was looking a bit panicked now.

"Not enough?" Deep breath in… slow exhale out. If he lost it, she would just go right with him and he suspected she was better at it than he was. "Myria" He put his hands on her shoulders. "It is not safe to carry actual gold around. Haven't you noticed what passes for money in this city? At best the higher denominations could be called "goldish". There's more gold in seawater for Sekh's sake." Her eyes widened as that sunk in. Then her innate abilities supplied the rest.

"Oh… oh dear. This is, I could buy your shop with this!"

That one actually hurt, and he recoiled. He could even feel the response bubbling up. Luckily, he looked at her face before he answered. There was not an ounce of guile or gloating there, just the eureka of learning something surprising.

"Ah. Yes you probably could. But, it is not considered polite to point that out."

She looked contrite and her voice lowered to a whisper. "I am sorry Jonathon, I did not mean to be impolite."

"It's ok. I know."

"No, it is not ok. It is… a problem I have. I do not know the right things to say and when I should not say what I am thinking. I will probably do it many more times." She looked thoughtful again. Jon found her honesty actually more touching than had she tried to explain it away, or make light of it, or even if she had just apologized and promised never to do it again.

He took her hands and looked at her carefully. "You don't really know how to lie, do you?"

She laughed, mostly at herself. "Oh, I can do that. I lie to myself all the time. It is almost automatic. And I lied to…" Her voice petered out and she looked down, adding quietly. "Can we talk about that later? It is complicated, and it hurts."

Yes of course." He gave her hands a squeeze. "Back to the matter at hand. You are going to not carry this around. I am going to give you some actual money and figure out how to turn this into Ankh Morpork dollars."

He brought her back over to his small bedroom and sat her down on the bed. "So stay right here for a minute. Don't go anywhere, and I'll be right back."

* * *

><p>"Jessica!" he yelled down the stairs.<p>

A few seconds later, his young cousin Jessica popped up the stairs. Good, maybe she would have the energy to keep up with Myria. He was already running on fumes, and it wasn't even lunch!

Jessica was a moderately pretty girl, though it was obvious from her build and hands that she was no stranger to work. She was solidly built, not a waif or consumptive looking but also not overly padded either. At sixteen, she was as curvaceous as she was going to be. Her brown hair was braided and tied up so it didn't get into the bread.

Helping in the bakery since she was very young had given her a pretty good appreciation of both honest labor and the scarcity of money. They were by no means poor, the bakery was in a well-to-do area and the clientele had money to spend. But they were not rich. She had never acted silly or vain about her appearance or clothes, but he was aware that she knew what the local styles were. Better than he ever could.

He could trust her not to go completely off the rails, a reliable lass like her.

"Yes Jonny? Is Myria ok?"

He blinked. How much did she know about all this? "Er, yes she's fine. How much did your pa tell you about Myria?"

She smiled wide "A bit cousin, a bit. And I chatted with her this morning. She is a strange one, but I always thought that was part of being rich." She giggled a little. "And pa told me to watch out for her so no one took advantage of her." She lowered her voice conspiratorially; "He said she's a smidge simple when it comes to people."

"Ah." No point in getting in a huff over his young cousin's take on things. "I'm betting those were not his exact words, but close enough. Yes I'd appreciate any help looking after her that – "

"So are you going to ask her to marry you?" She interrupted him, smiling wickedly. His mouth dropped open and she threw in a theatrical sigh. "It would be just like a fairy tale. The poor honest tradesman and the foreign princess!"

He gaped like a fish for a few seconds more, then managed "Jessie wha – that isn't – " before she interrupted again.

"Oh I'm playing of course, you silly. But don't pretend I didn't see you mooning after her every time she came by the bakery. And running off every evening. And baking things all special for her." She rolled her eyes. "Pa said you were the only one in the family that didn't know what you were about."

It hadn't been like that at all! At least… He sighed.

"Ok fine, everyone is smarter than me. Especially you. Which is why I need your help. Myria needs a day of pampering, and I need someone. Someone female. To go with her." Jessica smiled even wider.

"Ooo… a _girls_ day out! This is going to be so awesome!"

"Right, right, just don't go completely crazy. I was thinking a hair thing, and one of those makeup places, and some clothes. You know, something a bit more colorful but not too..." She was rolling her eyes at him again. "What?"

"Seriously Jonny, do you think you need to spell it all out for me? I am a girl you know. Like you even have half an idea what to even call it, much less how it's done. A hair thing? It's a _sa-lon_. Say it with me. Saalloooonnnn. Trust me!"

Suddenly he wasn't so sure about this. But he really had no choice. He had to get Myria out from underfoot for a while, and he needed some time to get his own bearings and then he needed to talk to someone about what 'enough information.' really meant.

"Now, who's got the money?"

* * *

><p>His uncle Pars found him in the small sitting area on the second floor a few minutes after Myria and Jessica had left, giggling and chatting like schoolgirls despite the fact that Myria was probably a half decade older. Or was she? He realized that he had no idea how old she was in fact.<p>

And he had raided the shop's savings. Cleaned them out in fact. Jessica's eyes had widened at that, but she had kept her mouth shut as he handed it over to her keeping.

"Don't spend it all in one place." he had mumbled.

So Pars, a big, no-nonsense kind of man, had come up to find him. He had seen Myria and Jessica leave the shop, and based on what he heard, they would be out most of the day. He figured Jon might need some advice.

"Hey Jonny boy, how are you-" Jonny was sitting on the bare wooden floor, his back against the wall. A few feet in front of him, sitting in the middle of the room, was a velvety-looking bag with something vaguely brick-like in it. Jonny was staring at it like it might attack him if he moved. Pars caught a bit of the fever, stopped, and asked carefully. "Jonny, why are you sitting on the floor… and staring at… whatever that is?"

Jonny didn't move his eyes. "I took all our savings."

"You took all our savings…" It wasn't a question. "Ok boy, and you put them in that bag?" Was he losing it?

"No uncle. I gave it all to Jessie."

Pars coughed, but barely looked rattled. That's how rattled he was. He said in that calm voice you save for someone perched on the ledge of a tall building. "I see. You gave almost five hundred A-M dollars to a sixteen year old girl and sent her out on the town. Yes. Yes I… And of course, this makes sense because?"

"Myria needed to visit the… _salon_. And she didn't have any actual money. And I trusted Jessie with it."

Now his uncle looked a little concerned, which was his equivalent of hysteria.

"Boy, and don't take this the wrong way, but are you telling me Myria has no actual money? And you just gave her our savings? Son, I know you thought she was rich, but is it possible…" Jonny was starting to giggle a bit. He always knew he was in trouble when his uncle called him 'son'. But at this point it really looked like he and Myria were swapping places on the cuckoo tree.

"Look in the ba" – cough – "look in the bag."

His uncle looked even more worried. "What is it? Is it some kind of charm or spell?"

"No, just… I can't even say the words. Just look ok uncle? Then you can… Just look."

Pars eased forward, and carefully lifted the edge of the small bag. Jonny held his breath. One, two, three. And Pars gently let the bag close, straightened up, and stepped back. He cleared his throat.

"I see. Yes. No money. Not a cent on her I suspect."

"No sir. No money at all."

"Just that."

"Yes sir."

"And so she gave it to yo – "

Jonny laughed, a little forced. "I told her to give it to me."

"Right. Right. And then you gave her…"

"Five hundred A-M."

They both looked at the bag for a few seconds, like it might explode or creatures from the dungeon dimensions might come out of it and eat their livers.

"Jonny boy, that can not stay here. Do you have any idea how much money that is? People would burn the shop down with us in it to get to it."

"I know! I know! And she was carrying it around with her! All over the city! Without guards or anything! Gods I'm surprised she survived. I had to take it away from her!"

"Ok ok boy, settle down." Deep breath. "Yes, you did the right thing. Only thing you could do I suppose. The only problem now is, what in blazes do we do with it?"

"I was hoping you would know that uncle. I mean—"

"Jonny, I have in my decades, never had the pleasure to handle, smell, see or even imagine that much gold in one place. I have not the first clue what to do with it. What I do know." and he fixed Jonny with a stern eye "is that absolutely no one but you and me can know about it. I'm not going to go down to the local money changers, or …or whoever, and … blast I don't even know what I would say."

He shook his head. "I suppose we can shave off a bit, maybe spread it around… No, not in Ankh-Morpork. That would just spread the news faster. We wouldn't last the week."

He looked at Jonny again. "Ok that's it. You look like something that got the yeast left out of it. And my brain isn't working right now. Here's what we are going to do. We are going to lock this up in the safe and pretend it's not there. It's just five hundred A-M dollars in there. And then we are going to have a nice day and sleep on it and then tomorrow we will figure out who to talk to about... whatever that was which I have just forgotten about completely. Understood?"

Jonny grabbed the lifeline and held on to that. "Thank you uncle."

"Don't mention it. Now, grab that bag of… whatever the blazes it is, and get it out of my sight. And then you are having some breakfast and a nap on your actual bed. I've got my hands full seeing as how we're down two workers this morning." Pars headed back down the steps, muttering a bit.

Jonny thought his bed had never felt so good.

Jonny didn't nap an hour. He woke up an hour before lunch, feeling closer to human. He deliberately went through his normal morning routine, washing up and shaving, and took care to pick out some nicer clothes. After all, he had to go see a lady about a lady.

He came down and took lunch with his uncle. Neither one discussed the earlier… business. He checked his own purse and determined he had plenty for round-trip cab fare. Normally he would have walked, but he didn't want to push things today. It was over ten blocks each way, and he could use the extra rest time.


	10. Lessons in Logic

**Chapter 10 – Lessons in Logic**

Jon didn't nap an hour. He woke up an hour before lunch, feeling closer to human. He deliberately went through his normal morning routine, washing up and shaving, and took care to pick out some nicer clothes. After all, he had to go see a lady about a lady.

He came down and had his lunch with his uncle. Neither one discussed the earlier… business. He checked his own purse and determined he had plenty for round-trip cab fare. Normally he would have walked, but he didn't want to push things today. It was over ten blocks each way, and he could use the extra rest time.

* * *

><p>THEE MADAM FROUT ACADEMY the sign said. And in smaller letters below <em>Learning through Fun<em>. Jon groaned. He knew people like that. They thought that being a baker 'must be jolly good fun don'cher know my good man' and then went on about the importance of a well rounded education and how work must be so enjoyable or so many people wouldn't be doing so much of it. Learning through fun. Well, unfortunately most of his life had been learning through working his buttocks off from a young age. He shook his head, wishing he had gotten more sleep. Maybe then he'd be more charitable about it.

Once inside, he asked for Miss Susan and waited. After a few minutes, the assistant told him that Madame Frout wished to speak with him. He was ushered into her office, where she sat behind a desk.

She looked up as he entered, and it was all he could do not to take his hat in his hands.

Madam Frout was not nobility by any stretch, but she'd rubbed elbows and interacted with the scions of upper crust for enough years that some of the mannerisms had rubbed off. And those hit certain nerves marked 'show respect' and 'be deferential'. It wasn't that she was sneering at him, or even trying to put him in any sort of 'place'. But he was sure she would call him 'my good man' or something similar.

"Ah, Mister… Knäcke is it? Yes. Please do have a seat." She smiled a bit nervously which was surprising.

"Thank you Madam, I wasn't really expecting to inconvenience the headmistress of the school. I was hoping to see if Miss S-"

"Yes yes, but Miss Susan is in the midst of lessons." She actually shuddered a tiny bit. Then smiled again. "We wouldn't want to interrupt the growing of little minds, would we?"

Jon began to seriously reassess his expectations of Madam Frout. She seemed nervous, even, and her hand kept moving toward a drawer of her desk, then she would glance down at it and draw it back to the desktop.

"Of course not." She answered her own question. "So, we have a few minutes to spend while we wait for Miss Susan." She took a breath, "So tell me, if you would be so kind, how long have you known Miss Susan? She doesn't get many visitors at the school and I am always eager to know more about our little family. We _do_ consider our instructors part of the family you know." Jon found himself mesmerized, nodding his head, while inside he was thinking. _Ah yes, family, and that's why you know nothing about her I expect. Yes indeed._

Outside he said "I'm sure you know Miss Susan much better than I do. I only know her… through a… a mutual acquaintance." Madam Frout looked disappointed.

"Oh, that is a shame. So you are here on their behalf then."

_Hah. _"Yes Madam. She seemed to be looking for a polite way to pry further, but she had already gone outside her comfort zone, and he wasn't about to volunteer any more information. He suspected, rightly he hoped, that Susan would not appreciate him sharing her personal doings with Madam Frout, "little family" or not.

The next few minutes were uncomfortable. Madam Frout tried to make polite conversation, but her heart really wasn't in it. He spent most of the time making noncommittal noises to her ineffective attempts to get the conversation back onto Susan without actually asking any questions. Finally the assistant returned.

"Madam Frout, Miss Susan is available to speak with Mister Knäcke." Both Jon and Frout were visibly relieved as he was escorted to the hall outside the classrooms.

This was a new experience for Jon. He had never attended a formal school, so had no idea what to expect. The children were milling about from room to room, apparently on some sort of break, and spilling out into the inner courtyard babbling happily and sticking various digits in various orifices. It made him want to wash his hands just being in the same space. The assistant stopped before one open door, motioning him onward.

If he had thought the atmosphere in the halls a bit strange, this bordered on the bizarre. He knew that this was not how children acted. He turned back to the assistant and whispered "I thought you said they were on a break."

She looked embarrassed. Yes Mr. Knäcke, this is what they do on the breaks sir, in Miss Susan's class."

"You mean she makes them sit quietly reading and," he peeked again, "drawing is it?"

The assistant shook her head, "Sir, if you please, it's not my place to say." and quickly made her way back down the hall.

Jon turned back to the room, and Susan was looking at him, with one eyebrow arched and a face that was equal parts amusement and impatience. "Mr. Knäcke, do come in."

All eyes were on him. It was just a classroom, complete with crayon self portraits and the obligatory classroom pets and a slight smell of wax and excited incontinence. But it was also, in a very real way, Susan's domain. He could actually feel it. And understood why the assistant had not come in, and why Madam Frout was slightly nervous about her as well. He imagined walking into a dragon's own lair would feel somewhat like this.

She smiled at him, or at least she showed her teeth at him. "Mr. Knäcke, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Ah… yes… I was wondering if you had a few minutes to spare. I had some… questions to ask." He was aware of more than a dozen eyes boring into his back. It couldn't be normal, how quiet they were. "I had understood you were on a break."

"Yes. The class is just engaged in some free learning." She looked over his shoulder and sighed. Yes Vincent?"

"Ooo oooo Miss Susan can I tell him about the story I'm reading?"

Susan closed her eyes for a moment. "As much as I'm sure he would appreciate hearing about 'Five Years in the Klatchian Desert', I do not believe we have time for a summary at this moment Vincent."

She stood up, and the children didn't move, but he could feel their attention standing, as it were, to attention. Wow.

"Now, I am going to discuss some matters with Mr. Knäcke. While I am gone…Gordon, you will be in charge until I return." Jon thought the boy in question would explode with importance.

Susan led the way out the hall and past Madam Frout's office. He was sure he saw the door opened a crack. The assistant studiously ignored them both. Outside, they walked silently a half block.

"So," Susan said. "I expect you have some questions, and perhaps some answers of your own though they may not be the right ones."

_Right to the point._ "Yes."

A few more steps.

"And those would be?"

Where to start? The more personal or the more immediate?

"Mr. Knäcke." She had stopped and was favoring him with a look that she probably used on her students when they couldn't decide whether they knew the answer or not. "I do have a class to get back to. If it wasn't for the fact that I suspect some of what you are going through, I would have sent you off and had you come back after hours. I am not going to work both halves of the conversation, you understand, so please. Do start."

No one could resist the pressure of that look. "Miss Susan, wha… _who_ is Myria? Really?"

Susan almost looked impressed. "You almost allowed yourself to say it. I would applaud you, but I'm really not in the mood." He deflated a little further. "Oh don't start that, I'm not in my most sympathetic right now and it's not your fault, so don't take it personally." She paused. "You started with the difficult question, which gives me some hope for you." She lost some of her sternness. "And it really is a hard question to answer. I'm not just being vague to be vague."

She turned and they walked a few more steps.

"Myria is… one of a kind. And I am not being soppy or silly. I mean it."

He stopped. "So you are saying she isn't –" Susan held up her hand, interrupting him, and turned to face him again.

"I'm choosing to believe that because you are here, you've made up your mind already. You understand that. I'm not a people person, but I consider myself a good judge of character." She paused again. "So if you are planning to run screaming down the street, by all means get it over with now."

"You are not exactly filling me with confidence that I'm going to like the answers."

"It's not my job to fill you with confidence, and I don't believe in telling fairy tales." her tone matter of fact. She looked over his shoulder at someone across the street. "My what a coincidence! There's Myria right now."

He turned quickly looking for her, then turned back confused. "What was that?"

"Do you know, you actually started to smile as you turned? Your entire demeanor went from nervous and unsure to pleased in a half second. I believe that says quite clearly where your head is, don't you?"

Jon tensed. "That was not… nice at all."

Susan was not smiling. "Mr. Knäcke, as I said, I am not a people person. And right now, for reasons that are none of your business, I am definitely not in the mood to delve into the details of your relationship with Lady Myria LeJean. You will forgive me if I chose to assure myself this way instead of spending the next half hour trying to drag it out of you." _And wanting to throw up the whole time…_ Susan was being bitchy, and she knew it, and she cared, sort of, but it was hard to feel sorry for Myria right now.

"Now, back to your question. Myria is more or less as she appears to be. You don't have to worry about her changing into anything strange." _I hope._ "She is a Lady, most definedly. And she is human, more or less."

He peered at her. "And what is the 'more or less'?"

"Exactly that. In some ways she is more than human. And in others she is quite lacking."

He was nodding despite himself. "Ok, yes. That does describe her well. She is fragile too, more than I imagined. I've had to be very careful and… flexible regarding things."

"I trust you have been keeping an open mind."

"How could I not?" And he proceeded to describe the situation with the mostly empty house, and the wild swings in emotion, and the night terrors."

"Ah yes, she had mentioned that to me as well. And I think she had one when we were… traveling yesterday."

"Yes, that is one of the problems. She is absolutely out of her mind at the idea of sleeping in a room by herself. And I can't see a way to – "

"Mr. Knäcke, are you going to tell me something that will upset me? Because I will not react well."

He was shocked. "Miss Susan I have behaved like a gentleman… " he reconsidered, "within reason. That is why I am concerned." He reddened, enough of this… Susan dropped this in his lap, he was damned if he was going lose potential help because he tiptoed around it. "I've seen what she's like. It's like hell itself has been after her when she wakes at night. She needs someone to be in the room, to calm her. That's all." Susan nodded. "And there are issues with that, as you know. There's not enough room at the bakery, and I can't be seen spending nights at Kings Way. It would… you know better than I do. What would happen?

Susan was thoughtful. "Hmm. Yes it would not be pretty. Society ladies can be a rather nasty lot when they feel the norms are not being kept up, and that would be a juicy tidbit." She turned it around in her head, and frowned. "No, it would be worse than that. They would ostracize her as having money but no breeding." That seemed to make her angry.

"So do you have any ideas? I don't know enough about how bad this can get to know what will work and what won't. I don't know how long she will be like this either."

"Well, the question is, do you care? She could stop being 'Lady LeJean'. Frankly I suspect she would be happy being something simpler."

"No. No, I don't believe that. She is not as, flexible, as you may think. It would require her becoming a different kind of person and I don't think that would be good for her right now. It's not easy being a tradesman, for example with the more posh looking down their noses at you. No offense meant."

She raised an eyebrow. "None taken. And it's not easy being a society lady either. It has its own pressures for someone who cares what people think of them. But you may be right. So. How do we allow you to be her, chaperone as it were, without a chaperone and without scandalizing the entire neighborhood?"

In the end, it came down to several options. The first, which was almost immediately discarded, was to have him 'hired' as a servant at the house. While this would explain his presence at all hours, he found the idea distasteful. And they both agreed that Myria would be hard-pressed to keep up the appropriate appearances in public.

The second, which they considered more seriously was to have him move in as a simple guest. This might have worked had he been from farther away, but considering his home and business was less than a half hour walk away, it would lead to the obvious conclusions. The "Lady" was having an open tryst with a tradesman. Oh the horror.

Finally they settled on the idea of a 'prestigious live-in chef'. On the positive side, she really did need to hire at least a few servants both from a security and an appearances standpoint. She could not have your typical chambermaid, they would be too close and see too much. But they could have some servants during the day to clean and maintain the grounds. That would help.

And he would not technically be a 'servant' or at least it could be explained that way. And his live-in status could be explained as the Lady's eccentricities* for late-night dining and freshly-made dishes. And as long as his pay was commensurate with his supposed status as 'prestigious', some familiarity in public could also be explained away.

There were of course a few problems with this. The biggest was, Jon was not a chef, he was a baker. An excellent baker, with a reputation for creativity and excellence among his clientele, but a baker is not a chef. After some argument back and forth, they decided they would just chalk this up to the lady's special dietary needs.

"You know, I'm actually starting to enjoy this. It's quite the little challenge isn't it?"

Jon shook his head. "It's not as fun looking at it from the inside, but don't mind me. Without your experience, I would be lost here."

So, there might be rumors, probably would be rumors, but it wouldn't be blatant. Strangely, people would probably forgive a presumed tryst, if there was plausible deniability. Not only forgive it, some would nod their heads knowingly and in approval. The most amusing part of all this was, despite appearances, there would in fact be nothing untoward going on.

Susan looked uncomfortable for the first time in the conversation. "I do need to make sure you understand something. And I don't want to know anything about your… relationship. Are we clear? So I just need you to listen and accept. Under no circumstances are you to allow Myria to… do anything inappropriate for an unmarried woman." She looked even more uncomfortable, seemed to reach a decision. "You've seen what happens when she experiences…" Argh. "intense… experiences." She shook her head. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He nodded. "I do. I would not do anything that would harm her, and I believe I understand the risks, though I still don't understand why."

"Later. Later we can talk again." She took a breath. "So back to less mortal matters, we seem to have settled the question of living accommodations, at least for now. Our dear Lady Myria LeJean will be the only society lady to have a very prestigious and professional live-in che.. oh very well, _baker_, one of the best on Small Gods. Which, incidentally will take some pressure off your bakery's finances." He had not considered that, but it fit nicely as well. "I consider that nicely wrapped up. Shall we go back? I'm sure my class is missing my firm hand on the tiller by now."

"Ah, well there is one more issue." And you didn't really answer my questions about Myria's past, but save that for another time.

"Oh?"

He lowered his voice. "How do I change a gold bar into A-M dollars?"

She stopped abruptly, then grabbed him by the sleeve and practically dragged him back to the school. Entering the classroom, the children were still engrossed in their activities, though there were doubtless greasy fingerprints around the lock to "the cupboard". Children are children after all.

"Class, I have a special treat for you, you will all take 15 minutes and play out in the courtyard." This did not have the desired effect.

"But I wanted to finish my book Miss Susan." "Do we have to?" "Is it because of the visitor?" "Are we being punished?" "Miss Susan, I have a report of who got up when you were out." That last one drew some dirty looks, but there you go.

"Take your book with you Vincent. Yes you do Penelope. None of your concern Jason. Not yet you aren't Melanie. Please leave the report on my desk and ALL CHILDREN WILL GO TO PLAY NOW."

Ten seconds to clear the room. He'd had to fight the urge to follow them out.

She rounded on him. She hated using the voice in the classroom. It felt like cheating. And now she was unhappy with him because of it.

"Close the door."

"Look I –" The look she gave him was… uncanny. He was at the door and back with it swinging to before he realized what he was doing.

"Have you gone completely mental? You don't even _mention_ money with that many zeros in this city."

"I know! I mean I know but I don't know. Look, I have no idea what I'm doing here. That's why I'm asking you, so please stop yelling!"

In point of fact neither of them were yelling. Oh the tone was there, but the volume levels were somewhere in the range of "mushrooms screaming". If you've never heard people screaming in a whisper, it's quite amusing to watch. It made their throats hurt but some things just need doing.

"Why do you need to do this? Doesn't she have…ohhhh…" Of course she didn't. The Auditors wouldn't make money, because that was a human thing to do. They would go to the logical extreme. Humans needed money, but money was just a representation of value. And what was more valuable than gold? So of course, they would just create gold.

He explained about the furnishings at Kings Way, and Susan actually placed her face in her hands. Unbelievable. Of course Myria would not have seen the point in furnishing rooms she didn't use. Another problem to manage, but it could be done with money.

"Hold on, how much of... the item, does she have?"

He used his hands to frame out the size of the bar, which was currently screaming "steal me steal me" in the safe back at the bakery. Susan shook her head. She had never really needed a lot of money, and like most denizens of Ankh-Morpork these days, she just kept it locked up at home. With the guilds working they way they did, as long as you were paid up with the Thieves Guild, you didn't have to worry much about being robbed in your home. The Guild had the tendency to recover funds taken improperly and return them to you… after they had washed the remains of the late thief off them.

But there were limits. Several tens of thousands of AM dollars worth of pure gold was somewhere in the stratosphere above that limit. For that kind of gold, a sizable chunk of the city's population would risk the Thieves Guild's ire, including many members of the guild themselves.

"Jon I don't know the first thing about handling that amount of… that item. But, I suspect some of my students' parents will."

"So you think you can help."

"I can try, but it won't be today. I assume there are ways, but frankly the wealthy here don't move things like that as far as I've ever seen, they just seem to sit on it and it multiplies." It was a mystery she'd found uninteresting, since most of her needs and desires… well normality is not something you buy, and it certainly doesn't come with more money.

"Thank you. Miss Susan, you've been a good friend to Myria."

"Yes, I suppose I have. It may become a habit I could live with. Just try not to get all gooey on me."

He didn't laugh, because she didn't seem to be joking. _Susan, _he thought_, you are more like Myria than you let on, aren't you?_

She turned and actually glared at him. "I know what you are thinking, and you can stop it right now. I like you, but I don't need to be analyzed."

Outside, he reflected how he'd managed to confuse apologies and thanks into a meaningless mush, somehow ended up with a loan of one hundred A-M dollars, and hailed a cab back to the bakery.

* * *

><p>Later that evening, as Susan stewed over how annoying relationships were (especially when other people were getting them) she had a nasty thought. How had Myria paid for the house at Kings Way? And her stay at that hotel? How would an Auditor think?<p>

"Damn, it's probably too late…"

* * *

><p>*Eccentricities are like quirks, but for the wealthy.<p> 


	11. Girl Talk

**Chapter 11 – Girl Talk**

Two females, one near infinitely old and naïve as a babe, the other still in her youth but with all the cynical wisdom growing up in Ankh-Morpork could provide, chatted amiably as they walked side by side from the Body Street bakery to Lower Broadway.

"Where shall we go first?" Asked Myria.

Jessica was thoughtful. "Hmm... What are you in the mood for?"

Myria frowned. "Mood?"

"What do you want to do?"

"Jon said I would experience a 'girls-day-out'."

"Right. But what exactly do you want to do?"

There was a long silence. The look on Myria's face said that this was one of the difficult questions, right up there with 'the meaning of life' and 'why humans find mimes entertaining'.

Jessica came to her rescue. "All right, maybe I should make some suggestions then. You wanted a hair styling, right? And some clothes?" Jessica appraised Myria critically and clicked her tongue. "And we should get your nails done. I've always wanted a professional manicure. Ooo even a pedicure! How about a facial? And makeup!" She was warming to the task now, and getting excited at the prospects.

Myria's eyebrows went up, and her brow furrowed. "And I will enjoy these things? These are things you enjoy? Do I need clothing as well?"

"Well, I've never been able to afford this kind of treatment, savvy? So maybe I'm going a bit overboard on the pampering." Another scan of Myria's appearance. "But we do have to get something a little more… colorful. And some shoes!" Myria actually stepped back at the glow in Jessica's eyes. "Shoes! I saw some to absolutely die for at-"

Jessica jumped and turned at Myria's gasp, replayed the conversation back a few seconds. "Oh good grief Myria, that's a figure of speech. I guess you've never heard _music with rocks in_, huh?" She frowned. "Say, Morporkian must not be your first language. But why don't you have an accent?"

"I, correct, I learned Morporkian when I was very ne- _young_. It is like my first language, yes correct. But, yes, I did not use it very much. I am still learning." Myria practically beamed at her response. She had not actually lied at _all_. She found she did not _want_ to lie to Jessica. It felt…wrong. "And what is _music with rocks in_? And what does it have to do with language?"

"Oh. Well I had a… friend who was totally into it and I picked up some of the slang. I don't use it around Jon and my parents because they say it causes headaches. But regardless, we can't do _all_ of that today." Jessica bounced on her toes. "But still, this is going to be almost as much fun as if I were doing it myself! Pure octarine, Djelibabe!"

Myria's brows came together. "But surely you will be with me? And that was more slang?"

"Got it in one! And yes I'm with you, but I thought I would just escort you and y'know offer suggestions."

Before Myria could respond, a hire-coach neared, and Jessica wave it down. The coachman dismounted and held the door for them, which was a bit out of Jessica's realm of experience. She chalked it up to Myria's presence. "Regardless, back to the question of where are we going to go first. Let's see, if you have your face done first, it may get messed up when they do your hair, so hair first. And I bet if we do your hair first, we'll have better luck with the clothes too since you'll look even more stunning than usual and of course after your hair is done, you'll feel better too! And let's do the clothes last because by that time you'll be completely _immersed_ in pampering and this is so great I just _know_ we're going to have a smokin' time!" Jessica finally paused for a breath, and smiled at Myria.

Somewhere in the whirlwind of words, Myria suspected Jessica had actually made a decision for them both and hazarded a response. "Yes?"

That seemed to be the appropriate answer. "Great! Driver! Take us to a posh hair salon.

"Er, which one Miss?" The driver called over his shoulder.

"I have no idea! Isn't it just dragonsfire[1]? It's like baking without a recipe!"

* * *

><p>Because of Jessica's rather vague instructions, the driver had to stop a few times and confer with other coaches, but eventually the coach worked its way up Scoone Avenue, Pallant Street, and thus to Madam Bouff's Haute Coiffure on Spa Lane. The coachman assured them it was very exclusive, though he of course had never had personal experience with so much as the waiting lounge.<p>

As they stepped down, Myria had a thought. "Jessica, should we keep the coach available?"

Jessica looked thoughtful. "Can we even do that? Hmm… here driver, what's your name?"

"Jackstone, Miss."

"Perfect. Driver Jackstone, could we have you for the day?"

"I beg your pardon miss?"

Myria got the idea and explained. "Driver, we wish to retain your services for the day. Is this possible?"

Jackstone was surprised. "Well miss, usually there are other types of coaches for that sort o' thing. I wouldn't know what to charge."

Ah, estimating cost of services? Child's play for someone born of an Auditor. "Of course. Remuneration." She rubbed her mental hands together. "Considering you charged eleven pence for a trip of 15 minutes for two passengers. Yes. We must add in travel time to and from fares, account for waiting on fares?" She paused. The coachman looked confused.

"She is asking you for information I think." Prompted Jessica.

"Er, o' course." Jackstone took off his hat, scratched his head and provided the requested answer.

"Correct." Continued Myria. "And we consider breaks for meals." Her stomach protested at that, and she coughed. "Which should not be compensated. Yes correct and subtracting prorata depreciation for the coach based on typical wear. And of course foo-" Another growl and cough. "correct, sustenance for the animals."

There was another pause as he considered, and gave his best guess for each of these.

"Very well. The appropriate rate, which you should be paid for eight hours of exclusive service, is one dollar A-M.

"But, Miss, that's more than I normally earns in a day. Sometimes I has to wait longer for fares y'see."

Jessica tapped a tooth thoughtfully. "Myria, we seem to have that rarest of finds, an honest man." She arched an eyebrow. "I think he is right. A dollar is the wrong amount. We should pay him one dollar 50 pence.

It was hard to tell who was more surprised, Jackstone or Myria.

_But that does not make sense_, Myria thought to herself but did not voice. Jessica's assertion confused her, but she was learning not to voice every thought, though it was difficult to resist. She compensated by having a conversation with herself while Jessica smiled enigmatically. In the end, she reached the conclusion that it still made no sense at all, but that she would trust Jessica's judgment.

* * *

><p>Madame Bouff's Haute Coiffure was indeed posh. It was the epitome of posh. In fact, it was so posh that many of its clients had no use for its services at all. The salon itself was designed to emphasize its social status. The waiting lounge was decorated and furnished similar to that of a high society estate, reminiscent of a very feminine version of the exclusive Fidget's Gentlemen's Club. In many ways, this is exactly what it was. Ladies would come hours prior to their actual appointment, secure in the knowledge that they would not, in fact, be seated until several hours after the reserved time. One could, therefore, ask why anyone bothered to make an appointment at all, which is a question asked by visitors to salons and dental offices throughout the universe. However in this case the answer was quite obvious, and also explained why many of those seated throughout the lounge discussing the latest doings down their noses had in fact no appointment at all and did not want one thank you very much I have my own servants for that at home.<p>

Instead, merely being seen to frequent the waiting lounge assured one of one's place in society. The only ones who didn't partake of this particular ritual were those who either had so much money they couldn't be bothered, or who simply didn't care one way or another. The former would spend their time in their own personal parlours like the proverbial spiders, waiting for the rest of high society to come be seen _with_ them. The latter, which likely included such noteworthies as Lady Sybil Ramkin (who had little hair left to style regardless) had other priorities.

This world was as alien to Jessica as it was to Myria, which point was driven home when they entered the building. The first indication was the silence that washed across the room as they presented themselves before the reception desk. The second indication was the hairstyles themselves. It was practically impossible to tell which clients were pre- and which were post-appointment. All of the hairstyles seemed to share remarkable characteristics, that of defying all reason with respect to volume, all gravity with respect to height, and all taste thrown in for good measure.

Finally, there was the woman behind the reception desk, who was endeavoring to look at them with both nostrils at once while at the same time radiating the disapproval of one who had decided, within 0.001 seconds of you crossing the threshold, that there would in fact be absolutely _no_ appointments available before sometime in the year of the frozen wahoonie.

* * *

><p>As a result, it was less than fifteen minutes later, when Myria and Jessica found themselves back outside Madame Bouff's Haute Coiffure or, as Jessica had christened it, <em>Madame Snob's House of Nobs<em>.

"That was rather unpleasant."

"Do you think? What a patrician[2]! She acted like you were privileged to even walk through the door! And the look on her face when I asked whether an appointment was necessary! I thought her hair would catch afire!"

"I do not believe that would be possible. I am sure the ignition temperature would be much higher than her body could withstand."

Jessica watched her carefully. "Really?"

Yes. Even accounting for the copious amounts of inflammable chemicals which were added to it."

"Ah. Y-yes. Well I still say she was two bananas away from going absolutely librarian on us."

"Librarian?"

"Sorry, more slang. They say the librarian at the wizards university is some sort of monkey."[3]

"I see. Regardless, is this how hu-_people_ of status behave in Ankh-Morpork? I am not sure I can master it appropriately."

"Well, you understand I really don't move in those circles, but honestly that is not what I expected. I guessed they would be more, well, friendly toward you."

"I do not believe they were friendly. I did not like the way the expressions on the ones named as Lady Fardsworth and Lady Stippley when they looked at us. It was… unpleasant."

"How'd you know their names?"

"I read them, they were in the appointment book."

"But, it was upside down and she closed it as soon as you admitted you didn't have an appointment!"

"I am… a very good… reader?"

"Myria, you are just full of surprises."

"Jessica, that is incontrovertible."

Jessica's face took on a somewhat pained expression.

"I am sorry, Jessica, I was agreeing with you." _I shall have to adjust my language to the person I am with_, Myria realized. It was like being a different person with different humans, something she had not considered before. And it seemed to go both ways. She had not heard Jessica use the 'music with rocks' slang with Jon earlier.

"Ah, well then. Um. Shall we ask our coachman for another idea?"

First however, they were forced to suffer through several minutes of apologies from the coachman. Both Myria and Jessica tried to reassure him that they did not expect him to know the internal machinations of Ankh-Morpork's most exclusive hair salon, and that they still wished his services. That drama finally diffused, with a few more inquiries they found themselves at a significantly less posh, though still respectable, establishment several blocks away on Water Street.

An hour later, they made a very different exit than they had from _Madame Boo's House of Insults_.

Myria had experienced only one moment of panic inside, when the 'stylist' as she called herself had pulled out the scissors. Myria understood, in a vague way, that humans periodically trimmed excess portions of themselves, but there was still something worrisome about it. She had felt _diminished_ somehow, and had gazed sorrowfully at the bits of her on the floor until the stylist had led her to the shampooing basin, at which point pleasure had banished all concerns. Jessica had demurred when Myria suggested she have hers done as well, claiming she really didn't need it cut and a fancy style would not last at the bakery.

Now, Myria was practically glowing. Her hair, which before had been verging on the untamed, had received the aforementioned cutting, and then had been braided and fastened in a bun. There were still some tresses loose around her forehead and sides of her face, which had been curled into soft tendrils.

"That was exquisite! That was pampering?"

"_That_, Myria, was just the beginning of pampering."

"How is it that simply allowing someone else to do what one would normally do oneself could be so… relaxing and pleasant? I even _feel_ more human!"

Jessica seemed not to catch the comment, or to interpret it differently. "Yes, it does that. I remember when one of my cousins would do our hair. It was fantastic."

"Interesting. And does this style seem appropriate for me?"

"Myria, your hair looks smokin'." Myria managed to _not_ interpret that literally with some mental gymnastics. "Now we need to do something about your makeup!"

They spent another moment musing on the vagaries of hair fashions and high society, before the shop next door caught Jessica's attention.

"_Zorgo's Retrophrenology Clinic – Now with Two Locations to Better Serve You_? What is retrophrenology?"

Myria considered. "I believe that phrenology would be the prediction of traits or abilities based on the topography of the cranial bones. It follows then that retrophrenology must be the reverse."

"Um, can you repeat that?"

"I am sorry Jessica. To say it more simply, I believe Mister Zorgo creates skull topography in his patients in order to induce particular traits or skills.

"But, but that's totally bursar. You can't determine someone's personality just by changing the shape of their body!"

Myria chewed the corner of her lower lip. "I believe in that, Jessica, you are most certainly mistaken. It is amazing how much form can shape ability and… personality. Yes I think it quite reasonable. I would be tempted to explore this in more detail."

"Hmph. I still don't believe it. And we really don't have time. And besides," she gave a crooked smile, "we just had our hair done. Wouldn't want to mess up our hair trying to adjust our heads, would we?"

"I suppose not. Still, it would be interesting to see the result. I shall have to return and discuss the procedure at a later time."

At which point, there was a hollow _thonk,_ and a few moments afterward a man staggered out of the clinic with rather large lump developing on his expansive cranium. He peered at them as he swayed slightly. Well, one of his eyes peered at them. The other eye seemed to be on some sort of holiday and was reviewing various sights up and down Water Street. Periodically it would try to do something useful like keeping watch for attacks by diving birds of prey, followed by a scan for rabid moles.

"'Markable that. Quite 'markable. Feel mo' n'tellgent l'ready." Whereupon he rotated and wove his way down Water Street toward the Ahkh.

"And upon further evidence," Myria finished, "I suspect it would not be advisable."

"Right. Here, let's go get your face and nails taken care of before you do something we'll both regret."

* * *

><p>[1] Dragonsfire (n) MWRI slang - Like "the bomb" but with more back-blast and less bits to pick up afterward.<p>

MWRI (Music With Rocks In) slang is more or less incomprehensible to anyone over 20 unless they are A) a rather large and orange primate to whom "ook" can have over a hundred meanings or B) an aging wizard wearing enough leather to restore several cows to full health were it returned to them. In this respect, we have finally found one area in which Myria is at absolutely no disadvantage relative to the rest of adult Ankh Morpork.

[2] A Patrician (n) MWRI slang – A person lacking in any perceptible humor whatsoever. People generally did not use this slang if they thought the Patrician could actually hear them. What most people failed to take into account was that the Patrician heard practically everything eventually.

[3] That is, SOME people say the Librarian is a monkey. But not to his face… at least not more than once.


	12. Dog Day Afternoon

**Chapter 12 – Dog Day Afternoon**

With hair suitably styled, Jessica suggested they take lunch while Jackstone asked fellow coachmen where a 'lady of status' would go to have various bits painted for effect. Jessica was famished, but had been warned about Myria's "special diet" by her cousin. As a result she wasn't surprised that Myria ate only the waferbread she brought with her, and drank only water.

By the time the ladies had finished eating, Jackstone had grabbed a much less expensive meal and gotten some answers. Returning, he reluctantly informed the ladies that apparently the best place to have "things painted and whatnot" was an establishment close by on Water Street called the House of Cyclops. However, and he seemed most hesitant about this part, it appeared that no one of any status actually entered the building.

It turned out, in fact, that the only people ever observed to enter what was apparently the finest beauty parlour in Ankh Morpork were servants sent to purchase, supposedly, beauty supplies for their own use. The fact that any one of those purchases was worth a month's wages or more for those servants was politely overlooked. Certainly, no true lady of status would admit she needed any… assistance… in presenting her best face to the world. The fact that the parlour also employed several full time girls who were very skilled at applying the supplies they sold in the front was likewise simply not discussed.

Nor was the steady stream of coaches that arrived at the rear alley behind the House.

Nor the veiled and cloaked figures that emerged from those coaches, passed through the rear entrance, and returned to the coach an hour or so later still cloaked and veiled.*

[I'm sorry, what were we discussing? Oh yes, the innate beauty of ladies of status which needed absolutely _no assistance whatsoever_ in dealing with that damnable wrinkle right _there_ and perhaps that blemish over _there_, and of course the fact that one eyebrow simply _refused_ to be quite as arched as the other. My my my we are a wreck are we not…]

Considering the recent experience with _Madame Gruff's Heap of Manure_, they arrived at House of Cyclops with no little trepidation. Despite the fact that it was within easy walking distance, they had agreed that it was necessary to arrive by coach like the other patrons.

"So," Myria repeated for the third time, "I am to cover my face before exiting the coach, so that others will not ascertain my appearance when entering the parlour."

"Yes miss. That is what I was told miss."

"But, surely once I have entered the building, I will have to uncover my face in order for them to complete the tasks required."

"I'm sure I don't know miss… er. Beggin yer pardon, but this sort o' service is not my usual haunts." Myria looked at him quizzically.

"He means he is as clueless as we are Myria." Jessica added helpfully. "Look, I think I get it. Sure, once you are inside, they will know who you are. And you'll probably see other ladies there too, right? But everyone will just pretend they don't. And the point is that no one outside sees you enter, so the only people who could blab about you being there are the ones that are in there with you! Do you dig? I mean, do you understand?"

Myria considered this. "So it is a form of mutual bribery." **

Jessica laughed. "Exactly!"

Like the hair styling, this was a whole new world for Myria, and one that was by turns disturbing, confusing, and pleasurable. She did manage, with some argument, to get Jessica to partake as well. This led to some raised eyebrows among the staff, but they were paid not to ask questions.

At the first station, she received her first manicure, which was a microcosm of the overall experience. First came the soaking and massage of the hand, which was relaxing and pleasant. This was followed by shaping, and the feeling of a file across fingernails set her teeth on edge. Then the nails themselves were tinted a red color (at Jessica) with what Myria determined was a combination of tree sap, unborn chicken amniotic fluids, gellied horse hooves, wax, and crushed flower petals***. She refrained from discussing this with Jessica with some difficulty, guessing correctly that she would probably rather not know.

The next station involved eyebrow shaping, which turned out to be problematic. The girl in charge of this station spent several minutes with tweezers in hand, hemming and hmmm-ing before proclaiming, with some obvious frustration, that she could do absolutely nothing for Myria. Jessica was amused, but Myria was somewhat disappointed.

Next was darkening the eyelashes. It was alarming to have someone striking matches in front of your face and then preparing, apparently, to stick the oxidized and blackened end into your optical organs. Only after watching Jessica go through the treatment was she persuaded that not only was the oxidized wood a cosmetic improvement, but the girl applying the treatment was not suffering from any sort of nervous tick that might result in an unfortunate nickname.

Myria and Jessica both pointedly refused to allow them to place belladonna drops in their eyes, but saw no harm in having their lips stained with flower petals.

Overall, Myria had to admit the result was very satisfactory and left her feeling more feminine somehow, though she could not define why this should be so. The ministrations complete, they paid the account, again donned cloak and veil, and exited through the back entrance.

* * *

><p>They had instructed Jackstone to wait at the front on Water Street, intending to simply walk through the nearby alley and meet him there (regardless of the scandal it might cause). They were both in good spirits, chatting amiably, when their conversation was interrupted halfway down the alley by a sudden thought in Jessica's head.<p>

_Aw, look at the poor doggie. Doesn't he look hungry? Mebbe I should, wossname, buy a little something for it to eat._

Myria, on the other hand, looked down at the ankle-height and raggedy apparition. "Excuse me, but why should Jessica purchase food for you?"

Jessica was shocked. "Myria! How did you- did you just read my mind?"

"No I was simply answering the dog."

"The dog?"

"Yes he said you should buy him something to eat."

"Wait, this is too strange. You can talk to dogs?"

"Yes I… but… can I not?"

They both looked at the dog in question.

"Woof woof."

"I do not understand."

"Er, bark bark?"

"No, I am sorry, I still do not understand."

"Woof woof bloody- oh fine. Yes we have a genius on our paws don't we? Would you-"

"Wait a minute." Jessica held up a hand. "Just one minute. I could swear you just talked to each other that time. And I know I can't talk to dogs." She bent at the knees to get closer, regretted it because of the smell, and stood back up. "What are you?"

Jessica didn't see Myria stiffen at the question, intent on the dog's reaction.

"M'a dog. Right? Woof woof. Bark bark. Throw him a bone sort o' thing." He sniffed her. "And you are either made of bread, or you work in a bakery. I'm right aren't I? The nose knows eh?"

He turned to Myria, who immediately took a step back. Not far enough though. "And you…" _sniff_ "Wait don't tell me." _sniff sniff_. The dog was inching forward, his nose outstretched and his ears moving in time with his cogitation. At the same time Myria was backing away. Finally he halted, ears flattening, and whined. "Yer not a vampire are you?" Now it was his turn to back away. "Cause I promise I gots enough diseases you don't even wanna think about it. Give you the mother of all stomachaches I would."

"Vampire? That's just silly." Jessica interrupted. "Myria is just as human as I am!"

"Har har. And I'm the Duke of Ankh. Left my coronet at the palace. Pull the uvver one, it's got bells on."

The unreality of the whole situation got to Jessica. _I'm talking to a dog that's saying Myria isn't human._ She shook her head. "This is silly, dog. Myria is not a vampire. It's broad daylight out, and… and I've seen her eat food."

"Oh fanks. Yes I'm Dog now am I? I should call you Delusional and you'd be happy eh?"

Jessica turned from the dog to Myria, who had backed completely up to the wall of the alley at this point. All the good feelings that the pampering had engendered was now fled, and she looked a pale ghost. Jessica turned back to the dog.

"Ok. I'm sorry. I'm talking to a dog and I've gone completely bursar, but sure, I'm still sorry. What's your name? Fido?"

The dog's ears flattened further and he actually widdled a bit. "Really. Fanks for that. Great name mind you…" He rallied. "Gaspode's the name, all my life. And you would be?"

"Jessica."

"And yer hundred percent human friend that the nose says ain't?"

"Her name is Myria," Jessica responded, getting exasperated "Look will you stop with the-"

"Sure sure, yer right o' course. Not a vampire if it eats people food. Look, hows about we discuss that little snack proposal, and forget all about this. Y'know. Woof woof, beg beg, nice doggie?"

"You won't tell anyone will you?" Came a quiet plea from behind Jessica.

Jessica turned around to face Myria, who had stepped forward with her arms wrapped tight around herself.

"Who would I tell? Remember, dogs don't talk." Gaspode considered, one ear rising and falling. "Then again, I do have friends in the Watch. Well, acquaintances anyway. Or leastways they don't give me a kick when they sees me. Making no promises, but I could see how a full belly would really help bring on a case of wossname… amnesia, right?"

Myria searched Jessica's face. "Jessica, would you purchase something to eat for Mr. Gaspode? I am sure you would know best what a domesticated canine would eat."

Jessica frowned.

"Please Jessica. I will be fine here until you return."

Jessica hesitated, her frown deepening. Then she turned a glare on Gaspode. "I don't know what you've done here, but I don't like it, and neither will my cousin. I'm gonna be right back with some food for you, and you better _both_ still be here." She glanced back over at Myria, then back at the dog. "I'm gonna hold you responsible if she's not here when I come back." _What was she saying_?

"Sure sure, it's all the doggie's fault. I'll just hold her down with my enormous paws shall I? Here, why not just give me a kick now, get it over with sort of thing?"

"Fine, right…" she turned back to Myria again. "Don't do anything silly. Jonny will never forgive me. Promise?"

"Yes Jessica, I promise. Please, I need to talk to Mr. Gaspode for a minute."

"Fine."

Jessica stalked off. It only took a few minutes to have a quick discussion with Jackstone, who generally didn't question the sanity of his fares out of fear his suspicions would be confirmed, and then to find a butcher nearby. On the way back, she had him pause for a moment in front of an apothecary selling rat poison, but let her better nature get the better of her. By the time they returned, Myria was leaned against a wall at the alley entrance with Gaspode lurking just inside.

"_Mister_ Gaspode, here's your payoff. And before you ask, I resisted the urge to put a nasty surprise in it."

"No harm, no harm. The nose knows as I said." Gaspode paused in the act of picking up and turned back to Myria. "Look, I know what it's like to be bottom of the pile eh? Bit of an oddball right? Sorry for any, you know, thingy."

"Thank you Mr. Gaspode. Yes it is not your fault. Now if you please, I have to speak with Jessica."

"Yeff yeff, feeu round, fnks." he replied around the choice cut of meat, and trotted back down the alley.

Jessica glared at the dog until it was out of sight, then she rounded on Myria. "What the blankety blank was that?"

Myria seemed to shrink into herself. "It is complicated Jessica."

"Complicated? I know complicated Myria, I'm a teenager. My father says I'm nothing but complicated. Half the time he doesn't even understand the words I'm using. That was not complicated Myria. That was absolutely bursar. I just spent fifteen minutes talking to a dog Myria. Named Mister Gaspode. Who just spilled it to me that you are in fact not a vampire but not human either."

"Please do not be angry with me."

"Myria, I'm not mad at you! I'm freaking out! That is not the same thing at all." She took a deep breath. "You don't eat people or anything like that do you?"

Myria gave a strangled laugh. "No Jessica, I do not eat people. I can not even manage bread."

"Oh yeah. Right, Jonny told me. So you really aren't human?"

"I… I am not quite human, I think. But I am trying to be. I am trying to be a lot of things."

"Does Jonny know?"

Myria hesitated.

"Let me guess, it's complicated right? Seriously Myria, my cousin is completely smitten over you and you are saying he doesn't know that you-" she held up two fingers of each hand and accented each word with them, "-aren't quite human?"

Myria's eyebrows came together. "What do you mean smitten? As in being struck?"

"Oh. My. Gods. He… You… " Jessica shook her head, her vocabulary exhausted. She waved her hands in the air. "Ok, do-over. You are a not quite human who most definitely does not eat people, correct?" Myria nodded her head. "And Jonny does not know exactly what you are?" More nodding. "Ok, when I tell him is he going to freak out or call me a liar or anything?"

"I believe that he suspects, and Miss Susan told him some things. But I do not know that he understands everything."

Jessica turned this over in her head. "Ok. So he is not completely in the dark on this. Understand, I've always looked up to my cousin. He's been like a big brother to me, but without the whole 'torture you by throwing frogs at you' bit." Myria looked shocked. "Yes, yes big brothers really do that. But that's beside the point. If he knows more or less what he's getting into, and he's still your boyfriend, then we're ok. Ok? Now, what do you want to do next?"

For her part, Myria was still trying to work out all the nuances in Jessica's rapid-fire half of the conversation. "So you are saying… that everything is alright?"

"Peachy. Trust me."

"Are all young humans this…"

"Confusing? Prone to mood swings? Able to change their minds in a second? I'm afraid so. I do have one request though."

"Yes, of course. If I can grant it I will."

"Tell me that this Miss Susan is not a talking cat."

* * *

><p>* I'm not making this stuff up. If you don't believe me, look up "House of Cyclax". It really worked this way for a while. Now we do reality programs of people getting tattoos while bragging about how drunk they are the whole time.<p>

** Also known as MAD – Mutually Assured Disgrace, one of the more effective ways of keeping secrets. It read something like this. "Yes, you know about me and that waitress which could really screw up my campaign for head of the Accountants Guild, but (ahem) I happen to have an iconograph involving you in a delicate situation involving five gallons of olives, a live sheep, and a wax replica of the Patrician. What say we both suffer long-term amnesia, what?

*** The Chinese made nail polish out of gum Arabic, egg whites, gelatin, and beeswax with natural tints added for color. Humans will stick anything on themselves that doesn't immediately kill them, and some things that eventually will, in the pursuit of beauty. You don't even want to know what's in modern cosmetics. Seriously. Don't.


	13. Pride and Petticoats

**Chapter 13 – Pride and Petticoats**

With the exception of obviously backward societies like Genua, Quirm, Al Khali, the Agatean Empire, and other less enlightened societies, the entire Disc looked to Ankh Morpork for the cutting, and sometimes bleeding, edge of high fashion. The names of renown designers such as the Houses of Bullworth, Blueflower, Dulcet, Sours, and Puray were known throughout high society across the Disc, or at least among high society across the Sto Plains, of which 99% resided in Ankh Morkpork.

But clothing shopping in Ankh Morpork was not a simple affair for the well-to-do. The working classes of course had it easy. The bottom of the social ladder could buy their clothes second, third, or fourth-hand at the conveniently located neighborhood Shonky Shop. And if the quality was low, so were the prices, and the selection was practically anything you could ask for provided you didn't ask for it to be new or fit properly.

Bump up a few rungs on the social ladder, and you had the benefit of even greater selection, because now you could buy the secondhand fashions of the upper classes. There were even some ready-made items that you could afford, provided you didn't mind looking like you were wearing something a size too large or small for you.

Your average tradesman, which included Jessica and Jonathon, could not afford much in the way of custom-made garments. The only really affordable ready-made clothes were outerwear like hats, cloaks, and footwear. Most everyone suffered through ill-fitting work clothes that were only a few steps away from wearing a burlap sack, such as Jessica's normal work attire.

If you wanted good quality _new_ clothing for special occasional use, you bought the cloth yourself and handed it over to a family member that could work magic on it. (Or if you could afford it to a professional seamstress or tailor). Those special items were made with care. The fabric was chosen to last years, and the styles were chosen to last as well. Jessica was wearing one of these, and she was proud to have something appropriate for this outing. Her normal smock definitely wouldn't do.

Thus, Jessica and Myria found themselves peering into the display windows of _Bullworth's Exclusive Designes_.

"Those statues wearing the clothing," Jessica bit at her lip. "Those just aren't realistic. No one with the money to buy that kind of clothing could possibly look _that_ starved."

Myria narrowed her eyes, analyzing and considering. "Jessica, I believe you are mistaken."

"No seriously. I've seen the amount of food their servants buy. Unless they are just throwing it away, there is no way they could fit into that!"

"You misunderstand. I am not commenting on the diet of the nobility. I mean to say that those are, in fact, not statues but persons."

Jessica's head snapped around and she stepped closer to the glass to take a closer look at the two pale and stick-thin apparitions draped in Bullworth's latest creations. "Holy cow! That one just blinked!" She turned back to Myria, "But who could possibly wear that? Other than those two I mean."

"I believe there is an island off the coast of the Counterweight Current where the local population has been forced due to crop failures to subsist on the Agatean stink slug[1] for several years. It is my understanding that one must be exceptionally hungry before one can, as it were, ensure the eating process is not reversible."

Jessica and Myria shuddered together, and turned their gazes back to the window. Jessica considered again. Do you suppose they use those models, um, so they don't need as much cloth? I'm guessing it must be expensive? Maybe no one wants to buy the dress once it has been worn? They must keep the other sizes inside."

Walking to the entrance, a doorman greeted them with deference to Lady Myria and a general air of ignoring Jessica, which rankled a bit. The scene that met them was not what they expected. Instead of a room of finished clothing, there were only more models, a handful of obviously well-fed clients, and several fussy staff members with tape measures and cloth samples.

They quickly learned that for the true social climber, it was practically impossible to purchase anything 'off the hanger'. For one thing, it would be a travesty to be caught wearing ill-fitting clothes and no one had quite struck on the idea of standard sizes, because when only a few hundred peers in the city could afford your design, what good would making several dozen of each possible size do you?

No, the truly elite had to suffer the trials and tribulations of custom fittings, with all the measurements, prodding in intimate locations, pinsticking, and holding poses that, in the Agatean Empire, could easily be misinterpreted as someone preparing to kick some serious Wang[2].

And after all that painstaking fitting, you had to walk away empty handed, and wait for the designer to have the desired ensemble created from scratch. The torture!

And Charlie Bullworth was the most famous of these designers, and the one truly on the bleeding edge of fashion. Bullworth was the first to hire young waifs off the street and have them model entire sets of clothing for prospective buyers. His reasoning was that the waifs already had that half-starved look he was going for, thus reducing the material costs for the modeled outfits (as Jessica had guessed). The unfortunate side effect was that after a few weeks of actually making money, the resulting improvement in their diets would soon have them no longer fitting in the designs. He solved this by promptly firing them and hiring a replacement who was 'hungry for a job'.[3]

The other reason for his success was that for some strange reason the very well fed and, shall we say, more robust clients that could afford his creations somehow convinced themselves that they too, when dressed in the same outfit, would look thin _because the models did_. It was all he could do to convince his clients to allow him to alter the outfits to better fit a more full figure, instead of sending them off looking like a sausage shoved through a drinking straw.

Mr. Bullworth as a result had become wildly successful, to the point that Ankh-Morpork peerage had begun asking him for the pleasure of hosting his next fashion show, but only if they were the only ones to host that particular design. Lady Venturi had gone so far as to ask whether she could have a line made up especially for her, with design elements that she suggested. The AdVenturi Line became an instant sensation, at least in the Venturi household, and Mr. Bullworth discovered he could actually double his prices if he gave each of the peers their own line.

After some of this was explained to Myria by her assigned sycophant Mr. Grisswell, she spent some time reviewing the available fashions. Jessica offered helpful suggestions several times, but each time was interrupted rather rudely by Mr. Grisswell (or, as she christened him under her breath, Mr. Gristle).

Eventually, they chose three ensembles that seemed to suit Myria and Mr. Grisswell had a female assistant take the required measurements and informed them that the ensembles would be completed no earlier than next week.

"But Myria-"

"Mind your tongue gel." Grisswell interrupted, leaving her gaping like a fish and fuming. "My Lady, it will take time to create these to your specific measurements. Quality can not be rushed!"

"I see. But Mr. Grisswell, I do need something more suitable than my current attire for the present. Surely you have something that could serve?"

He was obviously unhappy with this. "You do not understand. For you to be seen in an ill-fitting Bullworth… it would scandalize you and damage our reputation. I can not allow it."

It turned out, after some discussion of the monetary value of certain levels of damaged reputation, that Grisswell could allow a great many things and summoned his female assistant again. "Fleur, do you remember the dress that Lady Pensive commissioned before her unfortunate event?"

"Yes Mr. Grisswell."

"Good." He eyed Myria critically. "You understand it will be too small in the waist, and too large in… other places. It will have to be altered so it still will not be ready for several hours."

Fleur returned shortly with a subdued yet elegant crème colored dress with flared sleeves and a narrow waist, and escorted Myria to a changing area. When she returned, Grisswell informed her that Jessica had determined to wait outside, which was confusing but it did not occur to her to disbelieve him.

Instead she stood as he walked around her, examining the fit and becoming confused, and then flummoxed. Finally he stepped back and snapped his fingers irritably. "Fleur! Come here!"

"Yes Mr. Grisswell" as she appeared at his side, looking fearful.

"Give me Lady Myria's measurements." She retrieved the notations and he examined them. "Yes, exactly as I estimated before. But this is impossible. The dress fits her perfectly! Measure her again!"

"Mr. Grisswell, I assure you this is not needed." Myria protested, but Fleur had quickly completed her task, then stared in confusion at the results. Grisswell looked over her shoulder.

"Impossible! But the measurements must be correct. I can see that they are correct. And the dress fits as if made for you!" He shook his head. "Enough. I have a headache. Fleur, see that Lady Myria is properly cared for. I am taking the rest of the afternoon." As he walked away, Myria could hear him mumbling to himself. "Impossible…" He seemed quite broken, because for the first time in a decades-long career both the eyes and the tape measure had failed him.[4]

Of course Myria had yielded to temptation and cheated. She had not even considered that they would notice, nor that it would cause such a problem. It had been such a small adjustment after all, and she very much wanted the dress to fit. A bit of adjustment here, a bit there. What harm could it do?

Not the dress of course, with the patterns and seams it would have been more… difficult somehow to change that. But reducing the tautness of muscle tissue here, expanding some additional fatty tissue there, it was so simple!

And now it was complicated… which measurements would they use on the other ensembles? And would Jessica have another of her 'freak outs' as she had called it.

She needn't have been concerned, at least as far as Jessica's powers of observation. When she left Bullworth's she found Jessica was in no mood to discuss her attire, nor her waist size.

* * *

><p>[1] The most common dish made from the Agatean stink slug was called boomerang bisque. It's best not to dwell on that.<p>

[2] Wang was a very well established and serious family in the Agatean Empire, known for their fastidious book-keeping and a tendency to be assaulted by their clients for being a bit too honest about taxes-due reporting.

[3] No one said Charlie Bullworth was a humanitarian, just a genius at marketing.

[4] They Grisswell in the Mended Drum three days later, drunk out of his mind and complaining that the level of alcohol in his glass kept dropping no matter how carefully he measured it. He got over it eventually…


	14. What's In a Name

**Chapter 14 – What's In a Name?**

When Myria exited Bullworths, she found Jessica pacing back and forth in front of the coach. If her fledgling powers of interpretation were to be trusted, Jessica was extremely angry. Her body was stiff as she paced back and forth. Her hands were clenched, the muscles of her face tensing and flexing. Her teeth shone as she uttered an ongoing stream of barely audible mutterings.

Jackstone, by comparison, seemed to be sitting stiffly in the coach. Had she been more adept at reading body language, she would have filed him under "wishing I were somewhere else."

Myria stopped short. "Jessica, is something wrong? Mr. Grisswell informed me you wished to wait outside."

Jessica froze, her face reddening as she turned to Myria. The anger radiating off her was a palpable force, enough to make Myria take a step back. "Wished?" she spat. "_Mister_ Grisswell, the arrogant stuck up toad of a man, _informed_ me that if I could not hold my tongue and remember my place, that it would be best for all concerned if I removed myself."

"Your place?" Myria's brow furrowed.

"Yes my _place_. As a _servant_. Obviously I am not of the right _breeding_ to be a friend of a Lady such as yourself."

Myria processed this. "But you are not a servant. You were here to advise me. And I would like for you to be my friend. Why does Mr. Grisswell's opinion apply to this situation?"

That caught Jessica off guard. "Well… well it shouldn't, but people like that still get under my skin. I've half a mind to go back in there and tell him exactly what I think of him."

"That would be difficult; I seem to have upset him badly. He stated he was leaving for the day with a headache."

"Good! Serves him right. I've had my fill of nobs and snobs for the day. Besides, I'd probably have bitten his nose off if I'd gone back." That got an arched eyebrow. "Yes I am exaggerating… I think."

"I can see why his remarks would be inappropriate. But again, why are you so upset? He was incorrect, and he is not a friend of yours. Why should it matter what he thinks?"

Jessica resumed her pacing, but seemed to have worked off some of her frustration. "You don't get it Myria, you didn't grow up like we did… sorry. I mean to say that I've had to put up with snide comments and teasing about my name and my social status for my entire life. Sometimes it's just too much to deal with when some stuck up prig treats you like you are small."

"I do not understand."

"It's part of human nature Myria. People who are unhappy need someone to look down on. To say 'at least I'm not them, poor sods.' And they are protective of their social status. It's like a club; if anyone can get in, then being a member loses its fun. My family has clawed its way up the social ladder for the last four generations, and at every rung there has been a Grisswell or someone like him saying we were not good enough, didn't belong. Someone who tried to push us back down and ensure we did not 'get above ourselves'. My father doesn't care a crumb about these things, but for Jonny and me, it was hard growing up." She took a deep breath, exhaled. "Kids can be really cruel. Especially when they are taking cues from their parents."

She shook her head and stopped in front of Myria again. "And then to deal with _that_. To be treated like a servant, told to remember my place. That was just too much. He practically told me I was soiling the place with my presence, that if he had been _you_ he would have cuffed me and taught me a lesson. It was either stomp out or claw his face off."

Myria's face set. "I see. It appears that I will have to be more explicit in the future regarding the status of my companions when interacting with others. And I also have a lot to learn about maintaining status. I was not aware it was so ephemeral."

"If that means what I think it does, then yes it is. I had thought once you were 'A Lady' you didn't have anything to worry about. But considering what happened at Madame Bouff's, maybe it's not that simple. Still, surely with enough money you can do pretty much as you please. Look at Lady Ramkin. I hear she is _loaded_, and they say she stomps around her dragon sanctuary wearing burlap and leather that make my clothes look like a ball gown."

Jessica seemed calmer now, and finally noticed what Myria was wearing. She ran an eye over her. "I have to admit, toad of a man or not, he does know his trade. You are going to blow Jonny's mind. You look fantastic. It's amazing how that dress accentuates your figure."

Myria coughed. "Yes, it does seem that way." She changed the subject quickly, "But you mentioned before something about being teased because of your name. Why would anyone tease you about being named Jessica? That seems a normal name for a female."

Jessica gave her a long and appraising look, then turned to glare at Jackstone who managed to give the appearance of having gone completely deaf, then she stared down the street into the distance before answering. "Jessica…. Jessica's not my first name. Our family has had a very long history with food preparation. My grandparents, their grandparents even, had funny ideas about names."

Myria nodded. She understood the importance of names. The Auditors had felt that human names should clearly describe what they referred to, and didn't really understand the randomness of how they were applied in reality.

"My father for example," Jessica continued. "Jon calls him Uncle Pars, but his full name is Parsley Knäcke. And his brother, Jonny's dad was named Basil. My grandparents had a thing for spices."

"I see."

"Yes, you do see where this is going. Both Jonny's parents and my parents resisted. But in the end, they caved to family tradition, at least on the first names. Thank Io they at least gave us normal middle names."

"Surely it could not be that bad." Myria offered.

"Wanna bet?" Jessica shuddered. "Try going through your childhood named Safflower."

"But that does not seem an inappropriate name, for your family's profession."

Jessica looked Myria over carefully. "You would get along well with my grandparents, if they were still alive. But you never had to deal with being a kid in Ankh Morpork. Gah… the nobby kids used to call me Daffy Saffy." She reddened and seemed to shrink a little.

"I see. No it would not be pleasant to have someone twist your name, even in good humor."

"There was no humor to it, and nothing good either." Jessica smiled a little, recovering. "But of course, it could have been worse."

"How so?"

"You have to _swear_ that you won't use it except in dire need. _Swear_!"

"I can not swear, because I do not know what we are discussing."

Jessica leaned in conspiratorially, and smiled wickedly. "Jonny's first name… he'll kill me when he finds out I told you, so you have to promise you will only use it if absolutely necessary…" Her smile widened as she let the suspense build.

"It's Marjoram… would you believe it? They named my poor cousin Marjoram Knäcke. It's a miracle he made it to adulthood." As Myria tried to imagine why this would be so problematic, Jessica took her by the hand and pulled her toward the coach "Come on, let's leave this foul place and get you back to the bakery. We're going to blow Jonny's mind."


	15. Being Human

**Chapter 15 – Being Human**

When Jonathon returned from his consultations with Susan Sto Helit, the first thing he saw as he finished paying the fare for his hired coach was someone else also exiting a coach in front of the bakery.

It was a woman.

Her hair was braided and coiled, with stray tresses falling across her cheekbones. Her dress only added to the effect, with its pale color offsetting her lighter skin and darker hair. As he wondered who this could possibly be, she was followed a few moments later by a more familiar figure.

Jessica? A doubletake. _Myria_? He had thought her beautiful the first time she had passed the bakery. Now she was not. She was more than beautiful. She was… words failed him. Her face was… was an alabaster canvas on which her features were painted in contrasting colors. Her figure was grace and lace and…

She was the most beautiful creature alive.

"Jonny, close your mouth. You're letting flies in."

"Whuh?"

"Seriously cousin, try not to drool. " He heard a giggle from beside him, but all he could see was Myria looking at him with an uncertain small smile on her face. "Jonny…" –snap snap– "Oh fine, yeah she looks amazing doesn't she. And hey, we even have money left over!"

"Whuh?"

"Oh good grief. Go escort her inside before a mountain falls on you. I have to settle up with Jackstone. Maybe you'll have found your brain by then." He vaguely saw her move away.

Myria continued to regard him, her smile starting to waver. "Jonathon, you seem discomfited. Is the dress not pleasing?"

"Whuh?"

A look of concerned came over her face. "Jessica said we would 'blow your mind'. I assumed that was a figure of speech, but your faculties appear to be actually impaired."

Jonathon shook his head, trying to get some focus back. "No! Er… no I'm fine Myria. You just look… you look incredible!"

"Thank you. It was an interesting and generally pleasant experience. Thank you for suggesting it. Jessica is a very capable companion."

"I…" Jonathon reflected. This was turning out to be a very good day. Myria was obviously much more stable than she had been even that morning. And that had been a huge improvement over the previous day. Tearing his eyes off her, he could see that even Jessica had partaken a bit, and was bouncier than usual. In the meantime, he had gotten information out of Susan without being ordered to go out to the playground, and they might actually have a way to handle the whole… shiny yellow metal problem. Yes. "I'm glad it worked out well Myria. _Everything_ seems to be working out today."

"So you are rested as well?"

"I feel great actually. In fact…we should go out. You aren't dressed for an evening in. We should… I don't know, go out to dinner, or see if something is happening at the… I don't know, the Opera House? Oh wait! We'll need transportation!" He turned to Jessica, signaling frantically until he caught her attention.

She looked slightly put out. "What?"

"We may need the coach. For the… for the Opera. Or the Theater!"

Jessica frowned, opened her mouth, then closed it again. She seemed about to have some sort of fit but instead covered her face with her hands for a few seconds before turning it back to him. "Jonny, either one of those are like 2 blocks away. Will you please just go inside? Your brain isn't working at all and I'm afraid you are going to hurt yourself trying to walk or something."

"Oh. Ok. Right. Um, Myria why don't we go inside. You can wait and I'll change into… gods I'll think of something."

* * *

><p>For Myria, the rest of the evening was a warm, comforting blur. Johnathon was radiating… something, and it affected her. The play was some piece called "The Turtle Moves" and was apparently about the queer goings on years ago in Omnia. The writer had managed to make it humorous without going so far that he risked the Church of Om reversing its prior mandates against burning heretics at the stake. But more than the play, it was Jonathon's presence that made the evening. It was palpable. If she'd had more life experience, she might have compared it to sitting next to a glowing campfire on a cool evening. As it was, all she could do is file it under 'exquisite'. And she kept turning her head to find him looking at her, and they would share a smile before turning their attention back to the play. She remembered the clockmaker looking at her like that, in what seemed a lifetime ago, but now she was beginning to understand what it signified.<p>

_So this is what 'smitten' means_, she mused_._

* * *

><p>Later that night, she lay in her borrowed bed above the bakery, listening to Jon's quiet even breathing on the makeshift cot nearby. She found herself comforted by the sound. She was happy. This was happiness.<p>

She reviewed in her mind the discussions over dinner, about how they would resolve the question of living arrangements, and what Jonathon told her about Susan's offer to help. She believed it would all work out. This was hope.

She remembered how she felt as he held her hand on the walk back to the bakery. She was not alone. This was belonging.

This was being human.

She slept through until morning, the terror kept at bay by tomorrow's promise.


	16. Unforeseen Consequences

**Chapter 16 – Unforeseen Consequences**

The next morning just before dawn, both Jonathon and Myria awoke feeling, well, much more human than the previous days. Jonathon resumed his usual early morning routine of working with his uncle to prepare for the day's customers. Jessica likewise fell into routine, setting up the outside tables and chairs. Myria enjoyed watching them immensely, asking questions and analyzing the habitual flow of tasks that, in many ways, made them all part of a well functioning mechanism that was the bakery. _It was almost like clockwork_, she smiled to herself, wondering what became of Mr. Lobsang and whether Miss Susan was feeling better by now. The small ache that Mr. Jeremy's absence had left was almost gone, and she could consider the memory like you explore a missing tooth as a child. As the morning rush ramped up, she sat in a quiet corner with her simple food and drink, and watched the tide of humanity pass by her and somehow, by watching, felt even more a part of it.

It was only a few hours later that Jonathon smiled at her and announced they should go back to Kings Way.

She smiled in return. "Yes. We should check on the feline. He is independent, but if I leave him for excessive amounts of time without food, he had shown a tendency to destroy furnishings in apparent retaliation."

"Well yes, but also I ordered a few basic furnishings for the 'Chef's Suite'," his smile broadened at that "and I expect them to be delivered there before noon. We need to make sure someone is there when they arrive."

"I see. Yes. We would not want the feline to attack the delivery person."

"Good grief! You know Myria, that tomcat is not really a proper pet for you. He's not even tame."

She looked troubled. "Yes, I see you are correct. But Jonathon, he was in a way my first friend. Even if he is not a very good one, I would not feel comfortable turning him away."

Jonathon shook his head. "Well, regardless then, you should at least give him a name."

"Yes, it should be something appropriate. I had considered calling him Koom after Koom Valley."

"I… yes I could see how that would work, though it's not exactly typical." _Then again, disaster and Koom Valley go together like water and flour, and he looks like he's had at least three wars fought in his fur, so it's probably a more apt name for him than what I would have picked… "_Ok, Koom it is. Just don't call him when there are any Dwarves or Trolls around. You might start a war."

Jessica declared she would like to go with them, since she had not yet seen Myria's house. Pars affirmed he could hold down the bakery for a few hours, and they set off on foot the few blocks up Kings Way.

When they arrived, Jessica had been ranging ahead of the other two, and reached the door before them. She turned back to the other two with a puzzled expression. "Myria, the door isn't closed all the way."

"That is not possible. We secured the door before we left. Did we not?"

"I'm pretty sure we did," he replied.

"Well it's open now." She pushed at it.

"Hold it!" Jonathon hurried up and gently pulled her back. "Let me check first." Leaning back so he could see through the crack while doing so, he carefully pushed open the door with his boot a few inches, then shoved it fully open.

Or at least tried to. It jammed on debris at about three-quarters open. But that was enough. He heard Jessica and Myria's gasps behind him as they took in the scene of destruction before them. The house was a shambles. The smart thing to do would have been to leave immediately, but the shock of seeing it defied common sense.

The horrible painting Myria had done. Shredded. The sparse furniture was cut open and the stuffing or padding strewn around the room. The wooden chairs were kindling. The bed was a mass of broken material. Her meager clothing was shredded, linings torn from garments. Even the ceiling and walls were destroyed, with holes and gashes in every room, especially near closets. In the cellar, bricks had been pulled out of the walls and earth had spilled in. A hole had even been dug in the floor of the cellar. Only the stone floors in the first floor had been spared.

They wandered from room to room. Jessica shaking her head and wide eyed and, for once, at a loss for words. Myria absorbed each scene as a physical blow, unprepared for how physical damage to mere possessions would affect her. Jonathon could only repeat whispered words… _how_? _why_?

Finally they found themselves back in the study. He turned to Myria and was finally able to voice what had been running through his head. "I can't believe this. We have to lodge a complaint with the Thieves Guild. This should not happen! They've destroyed the place!"

Myria was pale, but managed to ask "The Thieves Guild? Why?"

"Well this is what we pay the dues for. They are supposed to prevent this. The only times you see things like this are when some freelancer from out of town shows up, and they usually end up as a roof ornament on the Thieves Guild House within days."

"But," Myria's voice was barely audible. "I have not paid any dues to the Thieves Guild."

There was a pregnant pause as the words sank in and Jonathon's anger at the perpetrators was doubled by the horror of what might have happened.

"WHAT! Myria that… that is _insane_! What in the name of Blind Io were you THINKING?" Someone was shaking his shoulder, but he was both terrified and angry. "You have been walking around Ankh Morpork for _weeks_, you could… Have you lost your MIND? My _gods_ Myr- _OW_!" He turned on Jessica, rubbing the small of his back where she had punched him, hard. "What is wrong with _you_!"

"SHUT UP you idiot! Can't you see what you are doing? She's already upset and you are here screaming at her."

"Blast it Jessie, she could have-"

"I know, ok? But Jonny, what do you expect? How was she supposed to know? Myria isn't… you know she isn't… argh. You know better ok? She can't be expected to get everything right, ok? Look at her!"

Jonathon turned back to Myria, who shrank back, eyes wide and face tear-streaked. "I… I did not know it was needful. I was not supposed… not supposed to _be_ here this long. I am sorry."

Jonathon deflated. His fear was still there. Myria had been walking around the city, with a bar of gold big enough to buy a dozen bakeries, without being paid up with the Thieves Guild. But it wasn't her fault. It wasn't. Jessica was right.

"Gods Myria, I'm sorry too. I'm just upset and worried." He stepped closer and took her shoulders. "I'm sorry. We'll fix it. We'll go pay the dues, and everything will be fine. We can get this place fixed back up. I…over-reacted." Myria was sobbing now, working through both the impact of the damage and Jonathon's reaction.

They all jumped at the sound behind them.

"What by all the gods, happened here! Lady LeJean, who are these people and what have they done to my Lord Rust's property?"

* * *

><p>While Jessica worked to get Myria's state of mind settled, Jonathon attempted to explain the situation and, unfortunately, was left with responsibility for leading him through the house yet again. In the process, he learned that he was indeed Lord Rust's agent, and was the man who had originally rented the property to Lady LeJean. Mr. Feddleman, for that was his name, was surprisingly understanding after he got over the initial shock, and seemed actually relieved that none of them had been injured. On the other hand, he grew more and more grim at seeing the damage that had been done.<p>

By the time they had returned to the study, Myria had recovered as much as could be expected and was ready to participate in the conversation. As it looked to be a long one, they sent Jessica back to the bakery both to inform her father of what had happened, and also to help prepare for the lunchtime rush. Another shorthanded day for the bakery it seemed.

"My Lady, this is horrible. The damage will run into the tens of thousands of dollars! We must file a protest with the Thieves Guild immediately!"

Myria blanched at this, and it was again left to Jonathon to explain that she was not, in fact, paid up. Mr. Feddleman became even grimmer, if possible. "I am very sorry to hear this sir. Because according to the terms of the contract, this means that Lady LeJean will have to bear the cost of returning the property to it's original state within 30 days." He looked pained. "I am sorry my Lady, but I have a responsibility to my Lord Rust to look after his property."

"Yes Mr. Feddleman. I certainly understand the responsibility of your position." She responded quietly. "Please do not concern yourself. I have adequate assets to repair all of the damage." Jonathon shot her a look at that, which she could not interpret but which made her wince.

"Ah well," the agent rubbed his hands together, "then we have nothing to worry about! This will just be a minor setback, soon rectified." He seemed very relieved. Jonathon felt that somehow he was missing part of the conversation here, but was relieved to see Mr. Feddleman quickly making his goodbyes and finding his own way out.

He turned back to Myria. "Myria. What did you _mean_ by having adequate assets? I realize that the… item we have is worth quite a bit, but if we use all that you will have nothing left to live off of!"

Myria blinked at him. "Do you mean the go-"

Jonathon had clapped a hand over her mouth. "Don't even say it. Don't say the word. You know that this is what they were looking for, right? Somehow word got out that you have it, and they don't know that it's not… not here… Myria?" The confused look on her face halted him.

"But it is here. Of course? I was not referring to what I gave you earlier. I was referring to all the rest of… it…" She trailed off, because Jonathon's face had turned paler than her normal complexion and he seemed about to bite through this lip as he realized the implications. "Jonathon, I assumed you would realize-"

"Where _is_ it!" he hissed. "_Where_!"

She shrank back. "It is… I put… inside…" she took a deep breath, let it out. "It is inside the stones of the floor."

As he stared down at the several-inches-thick slabs of dressed stone that made up the floor at ground level, he was almost prepared for the words that floated, as unwelcome as a rancid odor drifting through a dinner party, from the still open doorway.

"What seems to be the trouble here?" He pulled his eyes from the floor, which seemed to drag at them in protest, to see a rather attractive woman with long golden hair wearing the livery of the City Watch. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes were not. He could see a larger man, practically made of muscles and with short red hair and blue eyes, looming behind her dressed in similar fashion.

_Oh gods_…


	17. A Matter of Restraint

**Chapter 17 – A Matter of Restraint**

As the two watchmen entered the room, Jonathon's first reaction was panic, which he quickly tried to smother.

_We have done nothing wrong, broken no laws._

But he could feel the gold, gods knew how much of it, right there beneath his feet as a physical weight. It didn't matter that they were the victims, that they hadn't actually broken any laws. He was guilty on general principle, and had to resist the urge to tear at the floor screaming "Villains! Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! - tear up the stones! - here, here! - it is the glowing of the hideous yellow metal! There! And there!"[1]

Myria's reaction was quite different. Thoughts of gold, or robberies, or even broken furniture fled her mind the moment the male watchman came fully into view. He was… a conundrum. She could see clearly that he was a human male… extremely so. But her Auditor-derived skills kept trying to file him under 'dwarf,' and that clearly would not do. The result left her strangely focused on him, head tilted slightly to one side like a cat trying to decide what exactly that fuzzy object attached to a string is.

"Captain Carrot, City Watch. And this is Sergeant Angua. We were told there was a serious crime committed here."

_Even more intriguing_, she thought. His voice matched his appearance and set up reverberations along her nerves. _What manner of human is this?_

Jonathon, realizing that Myria was not going to respond, tried to answer nonchalantly. "Ah, Captain, there must be some mistake. We didn't call for the watch." He tried to follow the Sergeant with his peripheral vision while keeping his eyes fixed on the Captain but failed. She was already moving around the room through the piles of broken furniture and rubble from the damaged walls and he couldn't keep her in view without turning back and forth. "Though as you can see someone _has_ broken in and caused damage to Lady LeJean's residence."

Myria frowned at Jonathon's response. For one thing, it seemed to be… not quite correct, or at least incomplete. For another, it was as if his words were filtered through cotton. Something seemed to be wrong with her hearing.

But she could see perfectly well. At least, the Captain was vividly outlined in front of her. There was _something_, an air of nobility and controlled power and self-assurance about him. It was comforting and attracting at the same time. After the emotional shock of the past few hours, it soothed her rattled nerves.

"Yes Mr. Knäcke." Jonathon blinked at the mention of his name. "We were notified by a deliveryman. It seems he arrived with some furnishings purchased for the residence, and when he found the state of the property, he felt it was his civic duty to report it immediately." The there was a snort at that, and Jonathon spared the Sergeant a quick glance. She was off to the side of Myria, examining one of the holes in the wall separating the sitting room from the dining area, her face carefully blank. Myria on the other hand looked… slightly dazed.

When he turned back to the Captain, he was addressing Myria directly. "Lady LeJean? I'm afraid I have not had the pleasure. You are visiting Ankh Morpork for the first time I assume?" This was delivered with a pleasant smile. Jonathon relaxed. It was hard to stay tense in the face of that open, honest expression. _This is all going to be fine. Captain…Carrot… is just being helpful._

Myria felt herself go warm as the Captain turned to her and smiled. It was radiant, transforming him into the most beautiful human she had ever seen. He was… like a god. In the darkness behind the eyes, a picture formed unexpectedly of him, seated regally and commanding the room. It was replaced again by the vision before her, his smile broad and welcoming.

Somewhere inside her head, a war was waged and quickly lost. On the one side was her logical aspect, trying to get her attention, to put things into perspective, to file these reactions where they should go. Unfortunately it was vastly outnumbered by the combination of emotional demands and the body's strange chemical soup. The combination of yesterday's highs and this morning's shocks had left her shaken and vulnerable, and here in front of her was a promise of safety and strength, an aura of command. In a physical package that was suddenly irresistible.

Jonathon watched in confusion, then concern, as Myria drifted forward like a sleepwalker instead of answering the Captain. And she was not the only one unhappy with the result. From her left, the Sergeant was suddenly present behind Myria, and reached out to take her shoulder. "Hey! What do you think you are-"

Myria did not even realize at first that she had moved forward, until she felt something holding her back. She tried to break loose, then when she could not she flung her arm out in an attempt to push it away and felt it connect with something solid. Myria could hear nothing but the sound of her own pulse in her ears, see nothing but the Captain as his expression changed from radiant to an adorable confusion.

Then pain blossomed as from a distance, and sound assaulted her. There was yelling, and she realized with a shock that it was from her own throat and from outside her. The pain in her arm and shoulder was excruciating. She turned to see a woman's fingernails, impossibly sharp, digging _through_ the cloth of her blouse and into the flesh of her right shoulder. And beyond, eyes finally focusing, she saw Jonathon's face twisted in anger and outrage.

"Myria! For gods sakes what are you doing!"

_What am I doing?_

She turned back to the Captain, seeking the answer to her unspoken question. She was almost within arms-reach of him, but realized now that his expression was of concern, and he was not looking at her or reaching for her, but for his companion to Myria's left. It was the Sergeant who was holding Myria back from reaching him, painfully. Shocked and confused, Myria made the mistake of meeting the woman's eyes and found herself captured by a burning anger there.

"_You_. Will. Stay. _Away_. From. _Him_." Those eyes, predator's eyes, drove the message home, deep into the darkness behind the eyes. The darkness knew, and the flesh knew, and shrank back from the promise there. '_Mine'_ it said, and it had the ability to enforce it with blood, fur, teeth, and all the pain that Myria could imagine.

"I did not… I do not…" Myria began shaking with the pain and the realization that she had not been in control of her own body. She looked at Jonathon and saw his shock fading to simple anger.

"Myria, come here." The Sergeant released her as Myria stumbled toward Jonathon. Taking her by the hand, he led her to the once-dining-room-now-disaster-zone and cleared some rubble from beside the wall. She watched his face, trying to read his thoughts, but it was carefully blank. There was no warmth in his hands as he lowered her to the floor so she could sit with her back to the wall. "Stay here. I have to deal with this. We'll talk. Later."

* * *

><p>"I don't care what she has been through, I saw very well what she was trying to do."<p>

"Angua, she wasn't even armed."

"Hah. Every woman has at least one weapon in her arsenal."

"Sorry?"

"Never mind. And besides, you have no idea what she was capable of." She turned to Jonathon as he returned to the sitting room. "Spill it, what is she?"

"I… I don't know what you mean."

Angua's eyes narrowed. "I don't appreciate having my partner accosted and then being lied to."

"Angua, really, you are making a big deal out of nothing." Jonathon could swear she almost growled at the captain. "_Sergeant_, we are here to investigate what looks like a break-in."

Angua's eyes narrowed and she gave her head a quick shake. "Fine. Just as long as that… _person_… stays in the other room."

Jonathon could actually _see_ the Captain switch mental gears. "I'm sure Mr. Knäcke can answer our questions. Right Mr. Knäcke? How is your uncle? Shorthanded at the moment I suppose?"

Jonathon was taken aback, and tried to collect his thoughts. "Um… yes of course. Yes my uncle is doing well. We sent my cousin back when we found the damage."

"I see, and how much was taken?"

"As far as we can... how much of what?" He had almost been caught off-guard. That honest face was deceptively perceptive.

"Of whatever it was that the thieves were looking for."

"Er… as far as we can tell, nothing was taken."

"And have you reported the theft to the Thieves Guild yet?"

"I… as I said, I'm not sure anything was taken. I mean, maybe it wasn't a robbery?" The Sergeant snorted again.

"Yes of course Mr. Knäcke. But on the off chance that something was taken, have you reported it yet?"

"Er… no. Myria… that is Lady LeJean, had only been in Ankh Morpork for a short time. She had not yet paid her guild dues."

His honest face wrinkled in concern. "Oh my. Well that makes things much more complicated doesn't it? Not only will you have to have all this damage repaired out of your own pocket, you will have to track down the stolen items without the help of the Guild."

"I… we…" Jonathon sighed. "Captain, thank you for your concern, but as I said, we don't believe anything has been stolen."

"Right right. Sorry I keep forgetting you told me that. Looks like it's only a matter of senseless vandalism. A shame too, and in such a nice neighborhood. Probably hooligans. Do you mind if we see all the damage? For our reports of course, just a formality."

"Of course Captain! Please, be our guest." Jonathon was visibly relieved as the Captain and Sergeant worked their way out of the room. It gave him a few minutes to collect his wits, but it didn't seem nearly long enough before they returned.

"Well Mr. Knäcke, if there is nothing else you can think of that might provide a clue as to motive, we'll just fill out our paperwork –"

"_Outside_-" Angua interjected.

"Er yes, outside, and be on our way. Do you know of anyone who has a personal problem with Lady LeJean?"

"No captain."

"Ah well, it seems this is likely to be one of the really difficult cases. No motive, nothing taken." He shook his head. "Senseless. Well, I'm am sorry we can't be of more help to you Mr. Knäcke. We will be on our way."

"Yes of course Captain. We appreciate your efforts of course."

_Thank Io that's over…. _was all he could muster as he slumped to the floor.

* * *

><p>"Angua, what was that comment you made about the Lady?"<p>

Another snort. "_Lady_ LeJean is no lady."

Carrot's face creased as his brows came together. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not sure. But she's not human. I'm not sure what she is. She didn't smell right and she certainly didn't act right. She's no zombie, and definitely no vampire though. What looks human but isn't?" She examined her fingernails, and was not surprised to see no blood on them at all.

"She was certainly upset like you would expect a person to be."

"Ask me if I care."

"Angua…"

"Don't Angua me. I don't like her. And both of them were lying through their teeth."

"Yes, I realized that too. But I'm not sure why. I'm going to have a couple of the men keep an eye on the house, and on the bakery. This was not a simple vandalism or robbery. Whoever did that was looking for something. And based on the damage, they were willing to spend hours risking being caught to try to find it.

"As long as it isn't you, or me. I don't want you within a hundred feet of that creature, and I don't want to have to deal with her either."

* * *

><p>[1] This is a common reaction of innocent men and psychotic poets[2] when unexpectedly coming upon authority figures. It doesn't matter whether you've done anything wrong, the mere appearance of someone with a uniform and a badge is enough to strike a perfectly law-abiding citizen with the urge to throw themselves on the mercy of said officer and confess a litany of trivial offenses that, frankly, they would much rather not hear.<p>

[2] My apologies to Mr. EA Poe.


	18. Out of the Oven

**Chapter 18 – Out of the Baking Oven**

The walk back to the bakery was the longest five blocks she had ever experienced. Jonathon spent the first two examining the cobblestones with intense silence.

"Jonathon-"

"I don't want to discuss it right now."

"But I do not wish you to be angry with me. I wish to apologize."

"Apology accepted."

"You are saying the words, but you still will not look at me. You are… you are lying with your words or with your face."

Jonathon finally did look at her, and it was an unpleasant expression. "Let it go Myria."

"I can not. I have to _understand_!"

He stopped in the middle of the cross street and flung his hands in the air. "What do you want me to say? You practically threw yourself at a complete stranger. Is this how you are going to react to other… people?"

"I do not know. I do not understand what happened."

"That doesn't make me feel better Myria. It just means you don't _know_ why it happened or if it will happen again."

"I am sorry! It has never happened before, Jonathon. I do not understand why he would have caused that reaction. There was something different about him…" She trailed off at his expression.

Jonathon shook his head, two sharp movements. "We need to stop this right now. Stop discussing this. I'm still angry, and what you are telling me isn't making me less angry. Can we drop it? Please? I need to come to grips with this and then we can talk later."

"I do not now _how_!" Myria was near tears, but it only seemed to harden the lines of Jonathon's face.

He leaned in and delivered his response through gritted teeth. "Then learn. It's part of being- " he lowered his voice into a harsh whisper "being _human,_ damn it," then turned and with lengthened strides resumed the silent walk to the bakery.

Myria gathered her arms around herself and followed, looking as miserable as she felt. She kept replaying the scenes from the house in her head, and each time it seemed to become uglier and uglier. The watchman's expression was no longer pleasant or radiant, but mocking. The Sergeant was sneering and feral. And Jonathon. She looked at his stiff and slightly hunched back. Jonathon was just anger personified. That left her with nothing but a sick empty feeling.

* * *

><p>The pair slowed when they reached the bakery. It looked oddly quiet, and they realized with some confusion that it was closed, far too early. Surely they hadn't been forced to close because of being short handed.<p>

And Jonathon's uncle Pars was sitting at one of the rough wooden tables just to the right of the entrance. Smoking a cigarette. Myria had not seen him do that before. He did not look well, and was staring at a piece of paper. As they neared, he looked up with red-rimmed eyes.

"They took her." His voice broke. He gripped the edge of the paper, crumpling it, and thrust it at Jonathon with a shaking hand. "They took my Safflower."

Myria watched the color drain out of Jonathon's face as he read it. She took the paper from his nerveless fingers as he knelt at his uncle's side. "We'll fix this. We'll go to the Watch. They say they have a werewolf who can track down anyone."

Myria stared at the paper, trying to process the words.

We have the girl. Bring the gold. Come alone.

It listed an address in The Shades.

"We should bring them the gold."

"Are you mad? That's the _Shades_ Myria. We'd never make it there alive! Uncle _tell_ her."

"I don't know Jonny. I just don't know. My little girl. My baby." He looked at Myria, then away. "I haven't even had the heart to tell her mother. She is," he swallowed, "she is inside, putting things away in the pantries... what do we do?"

"Surely they would honor the agreement," supplied Myria hopefully.

Jonathon grimaced and pulled her aside. "Myria, you are not helping. You don't understand. This is… this is a family thing, a _human_ thing. I have to… I have to go to the Watch. Do you understand? I have to convince my uncle that this is the right thing to do for Jessica's sake."

"But-"

"Go upstairs Myria. I need to do this. Just _go_."

As Myria worked her way up to the room, to _his_ room, she felt pain worse than the physical she had suffered earlier. His words had hurt. She was not _family_. But worse than that was the pain of realization.

_This is my fault. I brought these things into their lives and now they are suffering. They are suffering because of me._

Myria wept, and there was no one there to see the tears.

* * *

><p>It was some time later when a quiet knock sounded at the door. She both tensed and hoped, and then slumped when she realized it was not Jonathon, but his uncle. She looked down, ashamed he might have seen the selfish hope on her face. She looked up when he knelt in the rough floor in front of her and took her chin in his large oven-burned hand. He had a strange intense look in his eyes.<p>

He thrust something at her and she flinched. Then saw it was a velvety bag with a familiar shape inside.

"Save her Myria. Save my little girl."

"But Jonathon-"

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her face. "He went to the Watch. He puts too much faith in rules and laws." Tears ran down his cheeks. "I'm an old man, Myria, and I've seen how life doesn't play by the rules. And now they have my lovely Safflower. And I don't know whether she is alive or…" He swallowed a sob. "If you care for this family at all, do this for us, for my little girl. I can't put my faith in rules now."

Myria found herself holding the gold in its velvet bag, the hated thing that she had brought into this family. This was correct, that she should remove it and bring them back to how they were before. She looked up at the broken man before her, and nodded.

He fell back against the wall with his face in his hands, and she was glad he could not see how unsteady she was as she walked out of Jonathon's room, past a closed doorway where she could hear Jessica's mother weeping, and down the stairs. She was glad that he could not see her own fear in the darkness, taste the acid in her throat. Terror pushed memories to the front of her mind. Memories of Auditors corporating in the streets, of frantic searching for something to defend herself with.

When she left the bakery, one of the larger knives went with her.


	19. Into the Nightmare

**Chapter 19 – Into the Nightmare**

When she told him her destination, the for-hire coachman looked at Myria oddly, muttered "It's yer fyun'ral miss," and set off. She found her thoughts slithering past, difficult to grasp. At one point they passed a chocolatier, and she had the sudden urge to stop for more ammunition. But no. This was not then, this was now. These were not Auditors. Chocolate would not work.

She wished Jonathon were here with her.

The coachman refused to actually go into the Shades, and let her off at the corner of Twinkle and Elm Streets. He shook his head sadly. "Mind yerself miss. It'll be dark soon, and the Shades t'aint no place for a lady best of times."

She turned her eyes toward the dusk-darkened warren before her, shuddered, and started forward.

What Myria did not see was that the coachman turned the corner at the next street and halted, stepping down and leaning against the wall near a doorway. Something about the process of leaving his coach changed him from the merely rough working-class figure he had seemed before, to the kind of face that smiles with their teeth but not their eyes.[1] He spoke to the darkened entrance.

"Just like yer said Snakes. Though how yer guessed they'd send the lady's beyond me."

"Call it a hunch, and it could've gone wrong. Did you have the baker followed like I said?"

"Said I did, din't I Snakes? Sparkles will let us know if he ran to the Watch, but he sure didn't come this way."

"And she came straight here?"

"We went straight from that bakery, din't stop not wunst. That greasy palm-rubber was right, they must have been keeping it there."

Snakes leaned out of the shadows. Contrary to his nickname, he was actually rather handsome at first glance. No slitted eyes or reptilian features to be seen at all. He could have gotten the moniker because of his ability to slither around through the nasty underbelly of The Shades, or for the twisted plans he came up with, or even for his cold-blooded approach to executing those plans.[2]

He scratched at his cheek where a bit of skin flaked off.

"A shame for them. We could've handled all this clean-like. A cryin' shame." He scratched at his arm, dislodging another small patch of dried dermis. "Well, the boys've cleared the way to the snatch point. No need to worry about the rest of the riff and raff interfering. You keep your eyes peeled. I'll see you back at the flat." He leered. "This works, and we're gonna be set for life, living like kings in Genua or what have you."

"Hah, we'll havter live in Genua, Snakes. The Watch or the Guild get wind of this, and the whole Sto Plains will get too hot for us. Yer gambling a lot on this haul.

"Big risk, big payoff. Now off with you."

When Myria reached the corner she had memorized from the letter, it was fully dark outside. The Shades was not known for well-lit streets, and attempting to keep to the light just made you a clearer target anyway, so the demand for better lighting never went very far.

But darker than that was behind the eyes. Her body was going through what humans called "Fight or Flight Response", but she was no fighter, and flight was not an option. To actually force herself each footstep closer to this point, she had to override one terror with another. To beat down her personal terror with the terror of what would happen to Jessica. The strain was incredible and battered against her with every step. Her internal focus to achieve that was the only thing that kept her from jumping out of her skin at the voice behind her.

"Now miss, dun't turn around. You have what we asked for? Jus' nod nice and slow." Myria complied. "Good girl. Now. You and me are going to go for a little walk around the corner here where we can discuss the arrangements private-like. No reason to get excited. Jus' a business transaction."

"Jessica is unharmed? You will honor the agreement?"

"On my honor miss, not a hair harmed on her pretty head. Jus' business." She heard a soft scratching noise. "Now, if you please." At his prompting, she turned to her left into an even darker alley. "Now miss. I'm afraid we're gonna have to blindfold you. Can't have you seeing where we're going next eh? And then we'll complete our business and drop you both off right back here, nice as you pleases." Another scratching sound.

Fighting down more terror, she felt hands reach around to either side of her head and fit a band of rough cloth over her eyes. Now the darkness was truly equalized. She winced again as he cinched it tight behind her head. "See there, that wasn't so bad." He began to lead her forward through what felt like narrow alleys, then a more open street, and with prompting into a waiting coach. It seemed to go on forever, she had no way of telling where they were at this point, but it was many streets from their starting point.

There she was helped down and urged through what must have been a doorway. She heard a door open and close, felt the change in air from outside breeze to inside stillness. Then the blindfold was removed. She wished it had not been.

The room was practically empty, and dim. It obviously had not been used much. There was a doorway further down the wall to her left, and near that doorway knelt Jessica. Her hands were bound behind her back and her mouth partially gagged. Jessica's grimy face was streaked with tears, showing paler than normal skin beneath. She made small noises, her eyes pleading as she shook her head gently from side to side. As she stared, she realized there was a large purple bruise on Jessica's right cheek, and another on her bare upper arm.

Myria tried to swallow the wave of nausea that washed over her and focus on what needed to be done. She turned back to her escort who had moved into her peripheral view. "You misrepresented the status of the girl."

"Now now miss," Snakes replied, "not a hair harmed on her head I said. And as you can see, she's got 'em all still. Not our fault if she wasn't sensible like you."

Alarm bells were ringing in her head as Myria tried to find the flaws in this. This was not correct. This was, wrong. There was danger here despite the man's seemingly pleasant demeanor. She gathered her resolve. "I still consider this to be a breach of the agreement." She tore her eyes from Jessica to assess Snakes. He was unremarkable, at least from her experience. Nothing in his manner or appearance hinted that he was capable of kidnapping a young girl.

Snakes scratched at his throat, unleashing a gentle burst of dried skin. "Be that as it may, we can stand here, or we can conduct business and be on our way. You brought the gold?"

Hands shaking, Myria brought the velvet bag from among her clothing and pulled out the small gold ingot. Held it out to him. She was surprised to see his hands shaking as well as he took it. She watched as he examined it with glowing eyes before placing it on the table beside him. He looked at her and smiled.

And Myria despaired. There was nothing pleasant in that smile, in those eyes. Without hope she spoke. "You will now let us go. That was the agreement."

"Ah, yes. But you see, the agreement didn't say how _much_ gold. Me, I suspect there is more. Much more. So, you'll bring us all of the gold and then our business will be complete."

Something inside Myria strained. She could not flee, that would doom Jessica. For a moment her hands moved of their own volition, and she was transfixed by the sight of the large knife in her left hand. She looked back at Snakes, who looked amused, not frightened.

"Oh dear oh dear. Are you gonna scratch me with that scary knife?" He laughed horribly. Then his face hardened. "Wouldn't advise trying it." He nodded to her right, and another man, an ugly lump of a man, moved into her view. His face was heavily scarred from numerous evenings of entertainment in The Drum and similar establishments. He had tufts of beard growing at odd angles as the scars interfered with the normal texture of his skin. His eyes held no emotion but watched her steadily. As steadily as the crossbow was held in his hand, aimed at her chest.

Then another man, whom she recognized with a shock as the coachman who had brought her to The Shades, entered from the far doorway and approached Jessica, holding a large butcher-type knife in an obviously threatening manner. Jessica flinched, and her pleading eyes bulged.

"No! You must not hurt her!"

"We don't want to hurt anyone of course, miss." Snakes continued. "Not 'less our hands are forced. We just want what's due us. Now, all you have to do is tell us where the rest of the gold is. It's in the bakery, right?" He smiled reasonably and rubbed his face with a rasping sound.

"No… no… not the bakery. You must not go there. You cannot harm that family any further! It is… it is in the residence!"

He frowned. "You're not making my job easy here miss. We searched that house, tore into the walls, the cellar, everything. We know it's not there. Think again."

"I swear, it is there, in the floor!" Tears flowed down her cheeks. _They must believe me!_

Snakes shook his head sadly, turning to the man with the large knife. "Butcher, it looks like we will have to take measures to convince the lady we are serious. Let's see how she reacts to seeing the little lady there in pieces." His smile widened. "Start with her right hand. She can probably still bake with just the left one." He pulled a wicked-looking knife from his own belt and began walking toward Myria. "Let's see if miss loverly here actually knows how to use that oversized butterknife in her hands."

Something inside Myria fractured further, and time seemed to slow. The man called Butcher moved behind Jessica and took one of her bound hands. The pressure of the bindings had cut into her wrists already, making it pale blue. Myria could only watch Jessica's eyes bulge and the young girl tried to scream through the gag in anticipation of what was to come. In front of Myria, Snake was smiling broadly as he moved forward, and the ugly lump of a man had a slight dreaminess to his expression.

This was being human. These were humans. Chaotic, selfish, ugly, hurtful, hateful.

She looked at Jessica again, then down at the ineffectual knife still clasped in her own hand. "I am sorry." She whispered. Something inside was stretching, snapping strand by strand.

"You will be, miss loverly, very soon. You should have done what we said."

"I was not speaking to you." Myria said quietly.

Myria continued focusing at the knife in her hand, a hand which opened as the knife turned to dust and filtered slowly to the floor. She slowly raised her gaze to the men before her. In those eyes was the coldness of space, the emptiness of the vacuum.

The finality of death.

"Gods what…what _are_ you?" Snakes whispered as her eyes darkened to gray on gray. He froze, staring at the knife in his own grasp. Slowly at first, then with growing speed, it was turning to dust. With horror he realized that his fingers, his _hands_, Gods his _arms_! Were following suit.

His last thoughts were blank horror before his mind was consumed and his entire form collapsed in a wave of grey particles that spread in an inverted mushroom cloud as it reached the floor… to merge with the remains of the crossbow and its wielder, as well as that of the man once called Butcher.

And Jessica felt a sudden absence at the ends of her own wrist as well, to her horror.

There was screaming, but it was Jessica, not Myria.

There were no tears for Myria. Tears were a body thing.

There was no pain for Myria, pain was a human thing.

Myria brought her left hand in front of her face, staring emptily as she watched the fingertips change from alabaster to gray, a gray that washed over her form, purging all color. At the tip of the smallest finger of her right hand, she could see the texture begin to fray. But there was no pain.

She looked back at Jessica, still screaming and crying and retching through her gag on the dust that had been her captors.

"We are sorry."

Somehow more empty than before the Auditor first took possession of it, the body of Myria LeJean turned and left the room.

* * *

><p>[1] You know the type. There you are, enjoying a simple night on the town and a smiling gentleman approaches asking if you can spare a smoke or a light. If you wake up the next day with all your organs intact you call yourself lucky.<p>

[2]In fact the other kids had given it to him when he was growing up for chronic eczema, not all nicknames have nefarious origins.


	20. A Matter for the Watch

**Chapter 20 – A Matter for the Watch**

As soon as he had walked into the Watch house, one of the sergeants, a dwarf, had taken one look at him and called over the Captain. Jonathon handed over the ransom note, which pretty much spoke for itself. He answered a few immediate and urgent questions in a fog as Carrot handed the note over to Angua, who accepted it with a grim nod and seemed to flow out of the room.

"Must have already had this in motion before the men got there." Carrot murmured to himself." He seemed genuinely sorrowful. He looked up at Jonathon and his honest face was all concern. Quietly he said "Mr. Knäcke, where is the gold?"

"Kings Way."

Then two more watchmen came in, with a limp figure between them.

Carrot eyed them carefully, "Where is Constable Visit?"

"Stayed back at the bakery sir, to watch the rest of the family."

"And where did you grab this one?"

"Saw him shadowing Mr. Knäcke all the way here, sir. He stayed well back, but it was obvious he was very interested in where he was headed. He turned tail when he saw the Watch house, and we tried to grab him then, but he wasn't cooperative. Ended up running into Lance-Constable Bluejohn.

"Sorry Capt'n," the very large troll rumbled, "he was runnin' while he were lookin' behind him, and he runned inter me."

"Not your fault Lance-Constable, though it would have been better if we could have asked him some questions immediately." He sighed, "I'm Sorry Mr. Knäcke, but rest assured we will find your cousin. We have our best on the case. Now," Carrot leaned forward. "I saw the damage myself. The residence was thoroughly tossed, every nook and cranny opened, ripped apart, or dug into. But you still insist that the kidnappers, for there can be no doubt that's who did it, were unable to find it." He shook his head. "So what you are going to do right now," Carrot continued in a quieter voice, "is tell me exactly where it is, and we will be sending someone over to fetch it back to the Watch house for safe keeping."

* * *

><p>Inside a cell at Pseudopolis Yard, Jonathon Knäcke wallowed in the soul-devouring darkness behind the eyes. It was a feeling that Lady Myria LeJean would have recognized in an instant, at least as late as that afternoon.<p>

As soon as the words had left his mouth, he knew it was a mistake. Carrot had gone absolutely rigid, then bellowed in a tight voice "Sergent Colon!"

"Sah!"

"Mister Vimes wants to speak with Mr. Knäcke immediately."

"Er, does he?"

"Without any doubt. " As Colon headed upstairs, wagging his head back and forth trying to make sense of that, Carrot continued. "Constables Flint and Haddock!" The troll and human in question drew themselves up at the tone. Carrot quickly sketched a rough map. "You will gather no fewer than two additional constables, and get Sergeant Detritus if you can, and proceed to this house on Kings Way. Constable flint will enter the dwelling, the others will guard the entrances from the outside. _No one_ is to enter or leave that property without Mister Vimes _being there_ to give permission. It is considered a crime scene. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir." As they hurried out, Carrot rose and firmly took Jonathon by the shoulder, leading him up the staircase that Sergeant Colon had previously scaled. Sergeant Colon was there at the top by a door, but before he could knock, a gruff voice inside said "Send them in."

Colon just shrugged with his eyebrows and opened the door for them, and then closed it when they entered.

Behind a plain and very utilitarian desk sat the Commander of the City Watch, His Grace the Duke, Sir Samuel Vimes. He didn't look like a "His Grace" at the moment. What he looked like was a man about to hear something he was not going to like. He held an unlit cigar in his left hand and peered suspiciously at Carrot. "Am I going to need this, Captain?"

"I'm afraid you may sir."

"That's what I was afraid of." Commander Vimes bit down on the end of it; Jonathon could see the muscles in his jaw clenching. "And this gentleman who looks like he just lost his best friend?"

Jonathon paled at that, and Carrot actually flinched in sympathy. "Commander, this is Mr. Knäcke, the Baker I mentioned to you earlier today. He-"

"Yes yes the one with the 'minor vandalism' issue. That's not very-"

"Sir, his young cousin Jessica Knäcke was kidnapped several hours ago, while we were investigating the… attempted theft.."

Vimes jaw worked again, and he pulled the still unlit cigar out. "My apologies Mr. Knäcke, I didn't realize." He turned his gaze back to Carrot. "Got Angua on it?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Mr. Knäcke, if Sergeant Angua is on this… well we can't make any promises but I can't think of anyone on the Disc I'd rather have looking for your cousin." He turned back to Carrot again and narrowed his eyes. "But you didn't bring him up here so I could offer reassurances of the efficiency of the Watch, Captain. Spill it."

Carrot glanced briefly at the door. "Ah," Vimes muttered softly. Then he bellowed "Sergeant Colon!" In a half heartbeat the door was opened.

"Mister Vimes?"

"Be so kind as to bring me some coffee, would you?"

"Right away!"

Vimes waited until he heard several creaking steps signal the overweight Sergeant's departure down the stairs. "Now, what is it?"

Carrot turned to Jonathon. "Mr. Knäcke, please tell the Commander what you told me."

Sergeant Colon couldn't make out all the words, since he was already downstairs and halfway across the squad-room floor. But he and the remainder of the watchmen in the room were very well acquainted with what it meant when that kind of cursing erupted from the Commander's office. Several of them were immediately very intent on their paperwork; the rest suddenly remembered they had patrol duty.

Sergeant Colon, having neither excuse, realized it would take him significantly longer than expected to bring that coffee. _Er, yes indeed. They might even be out of sugar again. Might, um, have to go out and find some more…_

* * *

><p>And so Jonathon had found himself, hours later, in the cell at the end of an empty row of them, guarded by a very large troll officer. The fact that he was not actually held prisoner didn't really matter. The guard was, he was told, for his own protection.<p>

He had been informed, tersely but not unkindly, that he would not be going anywhere until everyone was accounted for. They would send additional watchmen to the bakery to inform his aunt and uncle, and Myria, what the situation was, and to provide additional protection there.

It was only an hour later that he got his first update. He could tell by the look on the Captain's face it was not good. He looked miserable. "I'm sorry Mr. Knäcke, we're still running down leads, but the kidnappers took… measures… to hamper our ability to track them."

He didn't give specifics, but the reality was that Angua, being a werewolf, and a very acute sense of smell. and could track practically anything. Unfortunately the criminal element in Ankh Morpork had figured this out as well, and in a classic arms race had upped the ante by adapting the use of peppermint oil and worse concoctions to throw the Watch off the scent, both literally and figuratively. Angua had gone straight to bakery and picked up the trail, but not gotten far before she ran into an overpowering stench[1] going multiple directions. It appeared the criminals had smeared it on the wheels of several coaches, presumably but not necessarily including the one Jessica had been tossed into. Angua had requested a few hours and some aspirin before she tried picking up the scent elsewhere.

Then Carrot's face had gone even more somber. "Mr. Knäcke, I'm very sorry to have to say this, but," he cleared his throat and looked anguished, "it seems that Lady LeJean left the bakery soon after you did, apparently to pay the ransom. Constable Visit was unable to follow because she took a coach. She has not been seen since."

Jonathon looked at him blankly.

"Mr. Knäcke, did you hear me?"

"Yes Captain. Thank you."

"Uh, sir, is there anything… you need?"

"No Captain. I'm sure you have work to do."

"I… yes sir. I'll send someone to bring you something to eat."

As Carrot walked back up the row of cells and past Lance-Constable Bluejohn, Jonathon didn't even notice. In fact, he really wasn't aware of any of his surroundings.

It didn't matter, none of it did. It was all just a nightmare. The gold, his cousin missing, his aunt and uncle emotionally broken.

And Myria. Lady Myria LeJean, both a newly found loss, and intrinsically part of the cause of the destruction of all his life's peace as well. His uncle hadn't said it, but he could remember his father's warnings against trying to reach too high above their station, about the hazards of trying to move in that world. His father could never have imagined this, though.

For hours, Jonathon sat locked in misery and loss inside his own head. Whether the world outside had bars or not didn't matter.

* * *

><p>It was deep into the night when someone gently prodded him awake. It was one of the human watchmen. Jonathon had been dozing off and on for several hours, the nightmare of his reality meshing with his dreams until he had a hard time telling which was worse.<p>

"Mr. Knäcke, I am Constable Visit. The Captain will be down in a little bit. He asked me to tell you they have good news." Jonathon sat bolt upright at that. "They found your cousin."

"Is she here? Is she alright? Where is she?"

"Is it not said that Om will provide?" Jonathon gaped for a second. "Sorry sir, the Captain said they sent some men to get her, but that there are watchmen with her right now. He's trying to get everything sorted out in the meantime. He asked that you please be patient and stay here where it's safe."

Jonathon fumed, but knew he'd never get past the looming Bluejohn down the hall.

"Um sir, before I leave, could I interest you in an inspirational pamphlet to pass the time? You may find it eases your soul in this time of trouble... ah, or perhaps not."

It was several minutes later that Carrot in his gleaming armor came down the row of cells.

He didn't look as relieved as Jonathon would like. "Captain, what is it? Is Jessie alright?"

Carrot's brows furrowed. "Mr. Knäcke I don't know all the facts just yet, but I wanted you to know as soon as I could. We received a message from Constable Stepanoff that he had investigated a suspicious building and found a young lady exactly matching your cousin's description. She was in some sort of shock at first, and when he attempted to move her himself, she became hysterical. He informed Pseudopolis Yard immediately and requested assistance." Carrot looked even more uncomfortable. "He also mentioned there was a problem with her hands, and requested Constable Igor be sent along."

Jonathon sagged. "She's alive. _Gods_ she's alive."

"Yes sir, but she may have physical injuries." He quickly patted Jonathon on the shoulder. "Don't worry though, Igors are amazing at stitching things back together."

This did not have the intended effect. Jonathon's jaw dropped and his face paled. "Are you saying that her hands may have been slashed, or cut or… something?"

Carrot's face creased. "I'm sorry sir, I honestly don't know. I just wanted to set your mind at ease that she was alive."

Carrot was really trying his best to reassure, though probably someone else would have been better equipped for the job. Thinking about it further, Carrot didn't have the heart to tell Jonathon that Igors could even sew dismembered limbs back on.

Provided there was still a limb around to work with.

* * *

><p>[1] Yes stench. A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet. Concentrate it and smear it all over the inside of your sinuses and it's time for a bit of retching and industrial quantities of saline.<p> 


	21. The Price We Pay

**Chapter 21 – The Price We Pay**

Constable Stepanoff, newly part of the A-M City Watch on a transfer basis from Überwald, was alone in the middle of the night patrolling what was, after The Shades, one of the least savory portions of Ankh Morpork. The air was somewhat chill with dank fog, and he could feel it slowly working its way through his clothing. He had several hours to go before he could return to the Watch house.

He could not imagine anywhere else he would rather be.

He particularly could not imagine being back home in Bonk[1], where he would have even now been standing guard in the freezing mountain air with snow up to his fork. And likely taking incomprehensible orders from whichever unrestrained noble currently dominated the political landscape. Oh things had improved since the last visit of the Duke of Ankh. The more-stable throne of the dwarves Low King combined with the dramatically reduced influence of the werewolves had improved the overall political landscape[2], but things in Überwaldchange at decidedly glacial pace. The new guard exchange program was one such improvement, especially from his perspective. The poor A-M sod that was currently pulling duty in Bonk probably didn't see it the same way.

He was finishing his second uneventful circuit down an empty Attic Bee Street, and nearing the dwarf Gimlet's "Yo Rat" delicatessen, when a sudden thought made him pause.

_Bugger am I glad to see me here… er… wait. I mean, oy look, see the cute little doggie there behind me? Maybe I should, wossname, follow him?_

Stepanoff turned to see what he at first assumed to be an escapee from Gimlet's establishment, and only by degrees realized was a small, ragged, and quite aromatic dog.

_Y'know, if I had half a brain in that giant skull of mine, I'd nip a couple o' blocks over'n check out a veerrryyy interesting building. Might even be a bone- er, a medal in it for me._

* * *

><p>No more than thirty minutes earlier, Gaspode had been alone in the middle of the night, wandering what was, after The Shades, one of the more lucrative areas for scrounging the odd bone or tripe. He was cutting through a back alley between Attic Bee and God Street, and was only two blocks away from his destination, the Curry Gardens restaurant, with whose dumpsters he had developed a somewhat unhealthy addiction. The leftover food deposited in the dumpsters there had the distinction of being picked up early by Mr. King's men, otherwise it tended to corrode through the metal.[3]<p>

He was just passing an very nondescript doorway when he smelled a familiar scent that set his mouth to salivating, Pavlov be damned.

"Lessee… mouth waterin', hmm… what was the memory? Ah, yummy goodness…thick juicy steak… ah oh yeah… the flour girl. Wossname, Jessica.

Then that smell was overpowered by the stench of fear, first filtering through and around the door (accompanied by muffled screaming)[4] and was immediately mixed with the stench of doggy urine.

That is to say, Gaspode promptly widdled himself as the door seemed to dissolve to dust, which fell to the threshold and cascaded down the stoop. Passing through the doorway, drifting into the street with all the innocence and empathy of a miles-wide asteroid crossing the orbit of an inhabited planet, was a familiar figure.

And yet not familiar at all. Gaspode's ragged ears flattened against his head and his bladder emptied the rest of the way. The figure before him looked like the Myria person, but all trace of its former humanity had been wiped from it. Its skin was a uniform grey. Its eyes darker grey on grey. Even the clothing it wore was washed of all color. Gaspode felt the coldness of space wash over him as those dead eyes turned his direction, and he cowered, waiting for the end.

And found himself surprised to be alive, though rather more soggy and odiferous than before, as the figure continued drifting its way toward God Street.

"Bugger… that's it. M' given up curry for life… well…mebbe for a week at least…" Gaspode gave himself an all-over shake, which both helped him recover a bit and spread a certain dampness over nearby surfaces. In the process he became aware of a quiet whimpering from inside the building.

Muttering to himself, he stood looking into the whorls of dust concealing the contents of the room. "Hah, blow that… no way m' I going in there. Curiosity's for cats, right? Nine lives and all, they c'n afford it right?" Jessica's faint scent again wafted out of the obscured room. "Oh bugger all, mebbe there's wossname, another steak at the end of it. Today's a good day to widdle, eh?"

Through the cloud of choking grey dust, Gaspode followed his nose at first, until he couldn't sneeze the dust out fast enough, and then he followed his ears. Had he known he was inhaling the component elements of various weapons, body parts, and one rather small bar of gold…he probably wouldn't have cared. Dogs are generally not squeamish about such things.

He found Jessica kneeling in a fetal position on the gritty floor. She was covered in the same dust, her face concealed by her hair draping over it. Her arms were tucked tightly under her against her torso, and she was sobbing and murmuring something over and over in a quiet litany.

"Er, Jessica…" he bumped her gently with his nose, and her skin was ice-cold. "Jessica… are ya hurt? Can ya get up." He got no reaction, just the endless repetition of despair. Gaspode sneezed, trying to clear his nose, and got a couple of good sniffs in. "Alright, no blood smell, so that's good, but I can see yer not getting up on yer own, and Gaspode the Super Dog I ain't." He scratched himself. "Fine, so it's Gaspode the Talking Dog to the rescue sort o' fing is it?"

He spared her upper arm a quick lick, which didn't help and probably added a localized skin condition to her other woes, and headed off to find the Watch.

"I'll prob'ly get kicked ya know. It's a dog's life."

* * *

><p>Thus Constable Stepanoff found himself of two minds (one of whom wasn't actually his) and following the rattiest dog he had ever seen into the maze of alleys between Attic Bee and God Street. Every time he had second thoughts about going on, first thoughts seemed to intrude with encouraging little ideas like <em>Bugger me am I some kind of idiot? There's a crime been committed just up ahead.<em>

By the time he made it to the vacant building with no door, he was starting to question his own sanity. He could swear that blasted stray dog was laughing at him and managed to vent some of his frustration by sending a halfhearted kick its direction. Giving him the most smug look he had ever seen come from any animal that didn't periodically lose it's fur and start talking, it retreated out of reach and began pointedly licking itself.[5]

Shaking his head, Stepanoff peered into the gloom of the building and realized that he could just hear quiet sounds of sobbing within. At which point he did _not_ rush immediately into the room to investigate. He did _not_ call out into the room something stupid like 'is someone in there' or 'are you alright'. And he further did _not_ in fact call Gaspode 'Lassie', 'Champ', or even "Good Doggie" and bid him 'go fetch help boy!'

No, Constable Stepanoff cut his teeth (and often his knuckles and forehead) on managing to survive being a watchman in Überwald. What he did was immediately draw a standard-issue sword,[6] step back and scan the nearby shadows for the half-dozen men he was absolutely positive were sneaking up behind him. After a minute he came to a realization.

_Am I stupid or what? There's no one else about except the cute doggy. I should get my donkey in there and tend to the girl._

Positioning the shutters of his lantern so they would illuminate as much as possible without blinding him, he very nervously entered the building, to find the main room empty except for the fine dust that swirled about his feet, and a strange figure, also covered in the same dust, making piteous weeping sounds near the back wall. It took another minute of checking the interior doorways to satisfy himself that it wasn't some elaborate trap, or an even more elaborate joke by his fellow watchmen. Finally he sheathed his sword and knelt down next to the girl. He could see now that she was quite young, and covered in grime.

"City Watch miss, where are you hurt?" He looked her over carefully, and couldn't see any obvious wounds, but she was so tightly curled up he couldn't be completely sure. "Here miss, let me see." And he gently took her by the shoulders and tried to coax her into a sitting position.

And immediately flung himself backward as she began screaming and jerked from that tentative contact. He backed up against the wall. "Bloody hell…"

After a few seconds, her screams subsided into sobs again and she began repeating something over and over. Carefully approaching, he discovered she was weeping and repeating a grotesque litany: "My hands, Myria… my hands. Oh gods Myria my hands…" over and over.

It took him two more attempts, and two more screaming sessions, before he could get her arms pulled out from their tightly locked position and see for himself the damage that had been done.

Stepanoff realized that there was no way he could get her back to the Watch house with her screaming her head off like that, and he couldn't leave her there alone either while he got help. Leaving her sobbing and rocking back and forth on the floor, he went back outside the building and begin ringing his bell. "Watchman needs assistance!" was the message it sent out, and no watchman would ever ignore it.

As he stood there ringing the alarm and waiting for help to arrive, he tried to understand what he had just seen.

Her hands had been perfectly normal looking, though oddly limp. But the young girl had just kept staring at the space they occupied and crying for them as if they were not there at all.

* * *

><p>[1] Pronounced 'Beyonk'.<p>

[2] See the events in "The Fifth Elephant".

[3] You don't want to know the impact an authentic curry has on canine digestion. Let's just say that the more he ate, the hungrier he got.

[4] In Gaspode's experience, 'fear' and 'screaming' in humans seemed to go together like… well like him and various skin conditions.

[5] Which considering Gaspode's most recent biohazard incident, may not have been the smartest thing in the world to do, but Gaspode reasoned in retrospect that sometimes you have to suffer to make your point.

[6] Truncheons are all well and good when you are reasonably sure the other guy hasn't brought an axe to the argument. Otherwise Mister Short Sword is Your Friend.


	22. Priorities

**Chapter 22 – Priorities**

Several hours later, Constable Stepanoff had achieved the desired result, and the place was beginning to look like, well, a crime scene. He was also sporting an swollen eye beginning to turn interesting colors, and a bruised kidney.

First one, then two other watchmen had arrived, the first quickly sent to Pseudopolis Yard with a request for further instruction, a description of the girl in question, and a request for Constable Igor, who had arrived in short order with two others and filled him in on the situation and identity of the young girl.

"Igor, I just can't get through to her that she's safe. She just keeps crying about her hands, but I can't see anything wrong with them. And trying to even get a look at them throws her into worse hysterics.

Igor gave him a professional but cursory glance. "I asthume you didn't call me to look at your eye Karl."[1]

Hah, I got this," he pointed to the offending eye, "and a few other painful trophies when I tried moving her. She's a mess, but I wouldn't suggest trying that again unless we have four stout lads to hold her down. No, I was hoping you could have a look at her hands and tell me what's wrong with them. I keep thinking if we could get that worked out, we could get her calmed down enough take her back to the Watch house."

"I'll thee what I can do Karl. You might want to wait outside though, it might get noithy."

* * *

><p>Sergeant Littlebottom arrived at the scene of the crime with four other constables a half hour later to find a thoughtful Igor standing outside the doorway.<p>

"Hey Igor, Captain Carrot thought Corporal Stepanoff could use some relief. Where is he?"

"He's inthide Sergeant[1], but I don't think he'll want to leave. He's pretty upthet. And I'm puzzled myself."

"What's the situation? Why haven't we just moved her to the Watch house or back to her family's place?" Igor filled her in quickly. "Ok, so were you able to fix whatever the problem was with Ms. Knäcke's hands?"

Igor's mouth tightened and he shook his head sadly "I'm sorry tharge, there really isn't anything I can do."

"I guess it was too hard to really get a good look? With her screaming every time you tried to see what was wrong with them?"

Igor looked offended "Don't be thilly Sarge, we Igors are old handth at screaming." A pained expression crossed Littlebottom's face. "Oh, sorry Tharge. I was just thaying, if we let a little thing like screaming get to uth, Igor's would have been unemployed decadeth ago. That and general cackling and inthane howling go with the job."

"Ok ok, but you weren't able to fix her hands? That's hard to believe Igor. I've seen you work miracles."

"That'th what I was trying to tell you tharge, there's nothing wrong her hands. I've checked them over three ways to sunthine, and they're physically perfect. No muscle damage, no bone damage, no nerve damage."

"I don't get it. Are you telling me there's nothing wrong with them at all?"

"That'th exactly what I'm trying to say. The problem is all in her head. She _thinkth_ her hands are missing. According to Conthtable Stepanoff, based on what little he could get out of her, she was bound and gagged there for hourth and it was real ugly. Then she watched that Myria-perthon turn three men and their weapons to dust in front of her. It lookth to me like, since she wasn't tied up when Stepanoff found her, that the rope on her wrists wath dissolved too. I found marks on her wrists, she was trusthed up pretty tight."

Light dawned. "Ah. So there she was, feeling those ropes biting into her wrists for hours-"

"That'th right tharge, and suddenly she feelth nothing. Her head was pretty thcrewed up at that point, and it decided that her hands must have gone or something, and it'th refusing to see sense right now."

"Can't you do something?"

Igor scratched his head. "Well I'm really more of a physical-problem-fixer tharge, I could transplant her a new brain-" which comment earned 'The Look' "Right, right, pretend I didn't even thay it."

Cheery Littlebottom scratched her beard thoughtfully. "I think we need Dr. Lawn for this one." She turned to one of the other watchmen with her. "Constable, head back over to Pseudopolis Yard. They already had Dr. Lawn there working on that shady character following Mr. Knäcke. See if you can get him over here and bring something that will calm someone who's gotten a serious shock." She shook her head. "I don't see how we can move her in her current state, but we have to get her somewhere where we can do some good."

"Yes sarge, you got that one right. Staying in that room with all that dutht is not doing her any good at all, but she fightth like the dickenth when we try to move her."

* * *

><p>Hours after he learned that Jessica was alive, Jonathon had chewed one fingernail down to the bloody quick and was working on a second. His first ray of hope was the sound of footsteps and a loud shuffling as Constable Bluejohn's bulk moved aside. That hope was dashed as he saw it was Captain Carrot with another man he didn't recognize, and then revived more cautiously as he saw Carrot's expression.<p>

"Mr. Knäcke, I have good news. Our men are bringing your cousin here as we speak."

Jonathon sagged against the cell door as waves of relief washing down met suddenly released exhaustion seeming to come up from this feet. "So she's alright?"

The other man spoke. "I'm Doctor Lawn, Jonathon. I evaluated her myself and so did Constable Igor. She is _physically_ fine. She has been through a terrifying experience and it may take some time for her to recover fully." He paused. "Understand Jonathon, we had to sedate her and bring her here on a litter."

Jonathon rubbed a hand across day-old stubble and blinked at the Doctor. "Why?"

The doctor hesitated again, took a deep breath. "We… I'm not sure how to say this. She wasn't seriously hurt Jonathon, but there was a lot of emotional trauma. She'll need a lot of support to work through what happened."

Jonathon nodded. She was alive, and she would get better. That was all that mattered. Then Carrot cleared his throat. "Doctor, would you give us a few minutes? I need to discuss something with Mr. Knäcke, and it involves an ongoing investigation."

"Of course Captain. Jonathon, I'll be back in about fifteen minutes with your cousin in tow. Don't worry, we'll take good care of her. Commander Vimes tells me we will be moving all of you back home in the morning." He rubbed the small of his back. "Correction, it's already morning. I should say after sunrise. Carrot." He gave a brief nod as he turned away.

Carrot waited until the doctor was well out of earshot and took a deep breath. "Mr. Knäcke, I need to ask you some questions about Lady LeJean again, and this time I need you to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth sir. "

Jonathon looked at Carrot for a moment. Those pale eyes and square features just screamed "trustworthy" but he didn't trust his instincts at this point. He sighed, turned and walked over to the wooden chair and sat staring at the floor for a minute. "Captain," he began with resignation "I'm going to need you to keep an open mind."

* * *

><p>Captain Carrot learned more than he expected, and surprisingly he seemed to take it all at face value. Of course, what Jonathon didn't know himself, he couldn't tell. Then Carrot explained that they had reason to believe, based on what little information they could get from Jessica before she was sedated, that Myria had attempted to pay the ransom. In the process, things went horribly wrong. The result was Jessica half mad, the kidnappers presumed dead, and Myria's whereabouts and condition completely unknown. They would have to wait until Jessica recovered more before they learned all the facts, and that could be hours or days depending on how quickly she came out of it.<p>

Their conversation was just wrapping up as footsteps signaled Doctor Lawn's return, leading two watchmen bearing Jessica's small form on a litter. Carrot put his hand on Jonathon's shoulder. "We can't be sure Mr. Knäcke, but it is very possible that Lady LeJean saved Jessica's life in that building."

Jonathon tensed, frowned, and stared ahead at his cousin's limp body. "Maybe she did Captain. I- I don't know." His eyes stayed locked on Jessica's face as she was carefully brought into the cell. "But I can't stop thinking that… maybe it's my fault. My uncle said," Jonathon swallowed past a sudden thickness in his throat. "When we were arguing about what to do, after Jessica was taken… he asked me if it was worth it, that this was what happened when you tried to reach too high, wanted too much."

Jonathon stepped forward, and Carrot's hand dropped from his shoulder as he knelt down beside his cousin who had always been more like a sister. He cupped her face in his hand, "Oh Jessie, Jessie I'm so sorry." Beginning to shake with relief and fatigue, he half looked over his shoulder at Carrot. "Captain, I tried to help Myria and thought I was the luckiest man alive for a few days, and because of that I almost lost Jessie today. I'm not sure anything else matters right now."

* * *

><p>In a seldom-visited corner of Small Gods Cemetery, the morning sun's rays slowly crept through the lilac bushes that isolated this small section from the rest of the grounds. Surrounded by streets quickly bustling with life, it seemed a world removed.<p>

As the sun began burning away the night's fog, it lit upon a statue, grey on grey with unseeing and unblinking eyes facing the light. A passerby would have marveled at the craftsmanship. Every line and curve was perfect, the whole a wonder of aesthetic virtue.

Until you realized that something had broken off the smallest finger of one hand, and a portion of the finger next to it.

Until you gazed on its carven face.

Most monuments to the departed seek in some way to capture the joy of life, or nobility of their death, or at the least communicate some sort of empathy. But here there was only an endless emptiness that left no room for solace. Here was the empathy of the void. The warmth of the vacuum. Here was…

Nothing.

* * *

><p>[1] Constable Igor, in case you haven't noticed, has a bit of a speech impediment. That is, sometimes he DOESN'T "lithp hith etheth" the way a self-respecting Igor should. It's embarrassing, and his father "hath tried everything he can think of and nothing theemth to work." The other watchmen don't tease about it, not since Igor played "got your nose"[2] with Constable Honks in retaliation.<p>

[2] Igors are very very proficient at sewing body parts back on. Don't piss them off...


	23. Aftermath

**Chapter 23 – Aftermath**

Hours earlier, the body that was Myria LeJean had drifted down God Street. It had remarked the presence of the canine without comprehension and continued its way, little more than a darker grey presence in the foggy night.

Up God Street it floated, then Heroes, before finding itself pausing before... _what_?

A demolished building stood on the corner of Baker Street. Bits of clockwork could still be seen in the rubble, gears and springs looking like the exposed bones and spilled organs of a clockwork army slaughtered in some bizarre war. But no _life_ stirred in what was once the shop of Jeremy Clockson.

There was nothing here for an Auditor seeking… _something_. It paused motionless for many minutes. Time was immaterial. It was not alive, after all. But after some moments, the sound of a ringing bell blocks away drove it to put more distance behind it. There was no real intent, merely motion.

* * *

><p>Jonathon Knäcke was a busy man. It was early morning, and he expected the usual full day of baking and selling the results of his labor. His uncle was working the front counter, which allowed Jonathon to stay in the back with its ovens, pantries, and work surfaces.<p>

Away from people. Jonathon Knäcke did not trust people. He preferred bread. You added this much flour, that much water, a pinch of yeast. If it called for it, you added some sugar or other more esoteric ingredients. You made sure the oven was the right temperature, and watched the time. And out came the result, perfect each time. Bread was something you could rely on.

Jonathon Knäcke was a very busy man. For one thing, his cousin Jessica had not been able to help in the bakery since the kidnapping. That had been two weeks ago, and his Aunt Rosemarie was still spending a significant amount of time tending to Jessica instead of helping with the baking. And his uncle was often distracted, even during heavy traffic hours. Uncle Pars would be taking an order, or in the back of the bakery getting something, and he would pause as a wave of sadness washed over his features. Sometimes he stayed that way for several minutes, until someone physically demanded his attention. Other times he would come back to the matter at hand, and shake his head with a sigh.

The other reason Jonathon was busy, so very very busy, was because it distracted him from dwelling on other things. Like the fact that Jessica was still sick, and had panic attacks from time to time. He had also caught her, a few times when she thought no one was looking, staring at her hands and shaking. Most of the time she put on a brave face for the family, probably because she didn't want them to worry. She _should be_ getting better, but it was hard to see any improvement, and in ways she seemed to be getting worse.

And there were other reasons, reasons that drove him to work himself to exhaustion, always focusing on the task at hand. Wandering thoughts were dangerous, and a stroll down recent memory lane could land him very quickly in the emotional equivalent of The Shades[1].

He was just finishing icing a tray of pastries, when he discovered a fundamental truth about avoidance.

"Mr. Knäcke, I believe you and I have some matters to discuss, and I warn you I am not best pleased."

As Jonathon Knäcke's second worst fears were realized, he turned to find his uncle, eyebrows and hands raised in apology behind a familiar and visibly angry female figure.

Sometimes, trouble comes looking for you. And when it comes in the form of one Miss Susan Sto Helit, you know you are in deep batter indeed.

* * *

><p>Two people sat at a small table having tea, but there was little in the way of pleasantries taking place. One figure radiated impatience and disapproval. The other wallowed in wary unhappiness.<p>

"I would be angry with you for not notifying me sooner," Susan was saying as her fingers tapped the tabletop, "but it would not have mattered. I was… _unavailable_ for some time for reasons of my own. When I returned and realized that my warning had never been delivered, it was too late to do any good." Susan shook her head. "I went by the house on King's Way, and found it an absolute shambles, and the watchman very obviously monitoring it was not effusive in his explanations. What I did learn is that my concerns regarding Myria's… spending habits… were justified, and as a result your cousin had been kidnapped and later recovered." She frowned more deeply. "I also understand that Myria has still not been found."

Susan's words were salt in open wounds. They burned into places Jonathon had been trying to cover over with work and avoidance, and he resented it. "For someone who says they are not angry with me, you seem to be expressing it well, _Miss_ Susan."

"I did not say I wasn't angry with you, _Mister_ Knäcke. I said I was not angry with you for not _notifying_ me. That is by no means the same thing. _You_ told me you would keep an open mind. _You_ gave your word that you would be Myria's friend. Now you have decided you want to do neither?"

Bitterness from weeks-old wounds bled poisonous ichor into his tone. "You don't understand. You don't understand what we _went_ through." He gritted his teeth and his fingernails dug into the table's surface. "What my cousin is _still_ going through. When I made those promises, I didn't know what it would mean. Do you have any idea what Myria _did_?" He watched as Susan's disapproval waned somewhat, replaced by discomfort of her own. "You do don't you? You know what she is, what she really is. You could have told me." He added another spoonful of sugar to his tea; it was the fourth so far, and at this rate he would have to use his teeth to break off a slab of tea if he really wanted some of it.

Susan's tone softened slightly. "And what would you have had me do? What do you believe would have been the result had I explained exactly what Myria had been before she became what she was when you met her?" She shook her head. "It wouldn't have done any good. I didn't lie to you. If I was vague, it was because Myria desperately needed someone, and if you couldn't be that friend, she would have been dead within days. I told you as much as I could, and I would have answered any questions you asked. Forgive me if I didn't volunteer more than I believed you could accept all at once." She paused and took a sip of the rather nasty tea, considered adding more sugar to hers as well. "Fine, I accept that I am as much at fault as you are. The question is not who is to blame for what happened to your family. The question is, what are you going to do about it? Or more specifically, are you going to make it all for naught?"

Jonathon sat quietly, misery evident in his fidgeting and the way the muscles of his face worked. "I don't know where Myria is, Susan, no one does. Even the Watch said they were unable to find any trace of her."

"Be that as it may, that is not the question that I asked."

There was an even longer pause as Jonathon examined his lukewarm tea, the table, his hands. "Honestly, I don't know. I just don't know."

Some her anger returned. "Well then I suggest you find the answer to that question Jonathon. Frankly, I expected better of you than wallowing in pity and self-recrimination."

Jonathon jerked at the accusation and the criticism, and in the process knocked over his cup. He watched the viscous mess ooze slowly from cup to table, then stood without looking at Susan. "I have baking to do. Please excuse me."

"Do you mind if I finish my tea?"

He frowned but still did not look at her. "Fine. Feel free to see yourself out."

Susan sat at the table for another minute, watching her tea cool. She was frustrated, and upset at herself and at Jonathon all at once. Had she misjudged him? Had she misjudged Myria? What in the world had Myria done?

Finally she sat back and sighed, then spoke to the air in the room. "You can come out if you like. I know you were listening."

A door creaked slowly. "How did you know?" came a quiet, tired voice. Susan turned to find a young girl regarding her from the partially opened door to the room opposite. She looked tired. Not the kind of tired you get from a hard day's work, but the bone-deep weariness you show after an illness. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes, and her cheekbones were far too prominent.

"I saw your shadow moving around in the gap at the bottom of the door during at least the last half of the conversation." Susan shrugged. "You would be Jonathon's cousin? Should you be out of bed? Jonathon's uncle led me to believe you were still convalescing." _The girl definitely does not look well,_ Susan decided. Had she known Jessica from before the kidnapping, she would have trebled that opinion.

"Yes, I'm Jessica. I'm fine, I just…" She paused as she realized Susan's eyes had been drawn to motion near her waist. Jessica had been gently rubbing her hands over each other with subtle movements as she spoke. It had become a ritual. Rub back of left hand with right thumb, then palm across fingers. Let fingers of left hand move over those of the right. Then up across the back of the right hand. Thumb of left hand across the back of the right. From time to time, her thumb would stray to her wrists with a slight tremor. She stopped as soon as she realized she was doing it. "Some days are better than others. I've overhead Doctor Lawn talking with my mother. He says that it's a head sickness, that there's really nothing wrong with me." She dropped her eyes. "I want to believe him, but it's hard sometimes, to forget what I thought I saw."

Susan's inherent prickliness and cynicism, honed despite her silent protestations on what was in fact a heaping midden-load of her own self pity, ran full on into a twenty-camel caravan of actual suffering[2]. What was left when the wreckage cleared was a good portion of pity, seasoned slightly with a bit of self-disgust at her own pettiness.

"I'm sorry Jessica. I truly am. I had no idea that by helping Myria, or involving your cousin, that anything like this could happen. If I had…" She would have what? Allowed Myria to commit the suicide she had intended? Found some way to be a friend, despite the fact that Susan frankly often didn't like herself much?

"It's not your fault Miss Susan, and it's not Myria's fault either. And it's not my cousin's fault for that matter. Can you help me to that chair? I don't feel very steady and I think if I let go of the doorframe I might end up causing another panic. Every time I have a little stumble, they hear the thump downstairs and they all come running like it's the end of the world." She gave a bitter and low laugh.

Susan hurried over and let Jessica lean on her, leading her over to the chair Jonathon had recently vacated. "Jessica you really should be in bed. A head sickness the Doctor says? Does he have no eyes to see you are obviously physically ill?"

"That's probably my own fault." Jessica gave a wan smile as she gratefully lowered into the seat. "I have a hard time eating, and I'm not sleeping well. I've had some… nightmares." She shuddered. "They always involve knives, and creatures that I can't really see, but they…" she began trembling, and Susan put a hand on her shoulder as her suspicious intellect kicked into gear.

"Jessica, these creatures, they would not perchance be grey-coloured, cloaked figures? Did they tell you things? Like how easy it would be to just give up?"

Jessica stared at Susan as her mouth worked silently. Susan had described it _exactly_. The nightmares, they always started with the three men. The horrible men with their leering and crude suggestions, and their obsession with the gold. And in her dream she would keep telling them that she didn't know where it was, with growing panic as nothing she said satisfied them.

And then there would be the knives. Sometimes it was her hands. Sometimes fingers, or toes, but always there were the knives and the associated horror. On nights that she was lucky, she would wake up screaming at that point.

On other nights, she was not so lucky, and Myria would come. But it wouldn't _be_ Myria, not really. She knew Myria, she had _talked_ with her; she _understood_ Myria. The thing would look like Myria, but it would be just one more flavor of horror. And then it would change, or it would be replaced by a multitude of other things. Cold dark shapes that radiated disapproval and loathing. And they would tell her how pathetic and insignificant she was. How all she really needed to do was just stop _existing_, and the universe would be a better place.

On those mornings when she awoke with that lingering cold presence, she couldn't seem to muster the energy to eat, much less get out of bed.

Over the next few minutes, Jessica poured out her terrors to the most unlikely of confessors. And in the process, as she watched Susan's face tighten with anger and her mouth set in a grim line, it eased something inside Jessica. It made the grotesque a bit more bearable.

"I know those creatures, Jessica, and that is not just your imagination." Susan said curtly when Jessica had finished. "They can't really do anything _to_ you, but they can convince you to do some pretty horrible things _to_ _yourself_ if you let them." She shook her head. _And I may have an idea that will help, but we won't know until tonight. _"You said something else. I don't want to make you relive what happened, but it could be very important. How exactly did Myria find you? Did she say anything?"

Biting down on her revulsion, Jessica described what she had gone through. The long hours with her hands painfully bound at the wrist. Of how the terror of what the men would have done to her was finally replaced by hope, and then hopelessness as Myria appeared to be just as much a captive as she was. And then the terror multiplied as the man called "Butcher" had taken her throbbing hands, still tied behind her back, and prepared to create a clear and bloody message of what happened when "Snakes" was defied.

She told Susan of the cold numbness that washed over her as she watched Myria change, and described the transformation of the men to clouds of dust. The sudden absence of feeling at her wrists.

Jessica stared at her hands. "It took them _three days_ to convince me that my hands had not been dissolved away, like those men had been. The doctor had to convince me that the ropes disappearing, combined with the long time my hands had been bound and what I had seen, had made my mind play a nasty little trick on me. I still have a hard time believing it sometimes. My hands just don't feel like… like _mine_ sometimes." She shook her head and smiled sadly.

"I didn't see Myria leave, I don't think I could have seen anything at that point. And no one can find her. I heard the Watch even has a werewolf, and that they said there was nothing to track. It's like she never existed."

"We'll see about that." Susan regarded her with some concern. "The question is, do you _want_ me to find her? Your cousin doesn't seem to know his own mind, but you at least deserve some consideration in the matter."

Jessica shook her head again, and to Susan's surprise seemed amused. It brought some life to her drawn features, and gave Susan an inkling of the joy-infused girl she must have been before. "My cousin is an ass, and I'm probably not helping. Every time he sees me like _this_, it's like someone's hitting him in the stomach with a mallet. He blames himself, you know. He blames himself for 'getting above his station', and he blames himself for 'getting involved' and putting the family at risk. He blames himself for me. And the _idiot_ blames himself for not going after Myria as soon as he found out I was safe. Ass. Thrice an ass. He's so busy blaming himself for… for _everything_… the whole family is a mess still." Jessica looked at Susan, more steadily. "You know what Myria is, right? She told me some things. More than she told Jonny." She reached out across the table and grabbed Susan's hand, then looked down at her own hand in surprise before again meeting Susan's eyes and tightening her grip. "Can you find her?" She whispered intensely. "Do you know where she might have gone?"

Susan returned her grasp, offering assurance. "If she is alive, I _should_ be able to find her, but I think you understand that she has nowhere to go, nowhere to _be_, if she has no place here. If Jonathon wants nothing to do with her, then finding her might make things worse, not better."

"Find Myria, Miss Susan." Jessica hissed. "Jonny won't forgive himself, no matter what he says, if she just disappears and no one knows what happened. He can lie to himself all he wants, but I think he still cares about her. And I think… I need to know too. She saved my life, no matter what else happened. I need to say thank you to her, regardless of _what_ she is."

"Just find her."

* * *

><p>Standing outside a few minutes later, Susan reflected on what she had learned<em>. Maybe there is hope here, but there is risk too.<em> Considering what Myria had done, had likely _become_ if she was still alive, Susan showing up on her doorstep and reminding her what she had lost might be the worst move she could possibly make.

* * *

><p>[1] Getting mugged by your own conscience might, at first, seem preferable to the physical version, until you realize that your garden variety mugger will probably pass you by when he realizes you don't have any money left. The existential variety, on the other hand, has no qualms about kicking a man inna fork when he is already down.<p>

[2] No matter whose fault it is, when you have a smashup of that magnitude everyone ends up covered in it, and quite the worse for wear. Unless of course you _enjoy_ a thort tharp thower of thit.


	24. Monsters

**Chapter 24 – Monsters**

Jessica knelt on the floor, hands bound by knotted cords. Heart bound by icy despair. Everything had the surreality that comes in the depths of terror.

She could feel The Butcher behind her, his rank breath wafted past her periodically. She cried out for Jonathon to come save her, but she knew he wouldn't come. He lived in a mansion now, far from here, with _The Lady_.

The other man in front of her, the one called Snakes, moved toward her slowly with a wicked grin. As he approached, his movements became more and more fluid, more serpentine, his form changing with his agonizingly slow progress until before her was not a man but a large, gray serpent, fangs dripping with venom and mouth opening… opening… impossibly wide.

Almost blocked from view by the gaping maw, she could see the figure of Myria, her friend, materialize from nothingness, and her heart gave a strange lurch. She should be happy, Myria was here to save her, but instead she felt only more fear.

Her breath caught in her throat, icy talons tightening around her heart, as she watch Myria smile broadly, showing impossibly pointed teeth, and nod encouragement to the creature that had been Snakes not long before.

As hopelessness gripped her anew, Jessica tried to close her eyes, and found that she could still see through closed lids, as that wide-open mouth descended toward her.

_YOU_. WILL _NOT._ TOUCH. HER.

Jessica's eyes snapped open, and before her she saw… redemption.

A young woman, dressed in a dark cloak with hair writhing and eyes flashing with wrath, stood before them wielding, a spear? She faced the serpent, the grey-coloured shape of The Butcher, and the form of Myria LeJean, all of whom recoiled from her. The woman turned to Jessica, and spoke again.

WAKE UP JESSICA. _NOW_.

Jessica's eyes snapped open, and before her she saw… madness.

She was lying in her own bed, sweat-drenched with her bedclothes in a tangle. Standing next to her, one hand lightly touching her arm and palpably radiating fury and hatred, stood Susan Sto Helit. In her right hand she held a fireplace poker and was facing… three dark shadows, clad in greyness and shrinking back in the face of Susan's wrath.

_You cannot touch us. _

"Want to bet? See this?" She waved the poker around like a swashbuckler wielding a cutlass. "This kills monsters, I have it on good authority and ironclad belief. Want to give it a test?"

_You would not dare!_

"According to my grandfather, and Madame Frout, there is practically nothing I won't dare. Now _get out_ and don't come back." She hissed.

The creatures drew back further. _We are not breaking the rules._

Susan gave a low chuckle. "Frankly, I don't care about _your_ rules. From now on, we're going to play by _my_ rules. If I see you again, I will hunt every single one of your pathetic incarnations down, and I will teach _you_ what it means to live in fear."

_We do not live, therefore we cannot fear._ One spoke, and immediately received a stick in the eye with a sharp poker… or at least where an eye would have been. With a trailing wail, it popped like a soap bubble into a grey mist, which dissipated immediately. The second jerked back. _Ok ok! You win! Please don't hurt me! Oh sh-_ and it too exploded into an ephemeral cloud, upon which the third followed suit in apparent sympathy.[1]

"And just to make it clear DON'T COME NEAR HER AGAIN." Susan spoke in a strange voice that ran like lightning up and down the spine and seemed to penetrate the walls. "There, that should be sufficient." She shook her shoulders and worked her jaw for a moment before turning to regard Jessica on the bed. "So, how do you feel?"

"Um… I feel, like I've gone mad actually."

"Well that should pass. Apart from that, how do you feel?"

Jessica considered. "Better I think. Lighter somehow?" Her stomach growled. "And apparently hungry?" She laughed a bit, and smiled as the corner of Susan's mouth turned up in amusement. "Yes, I do feel better. What _were_ those? Where they real? Or just in my head?"

Susan considered. "Both actually." She carefully leaned the poker against the bedframe, and smoothed her skirts before sitting on the edge of the mattress. "They are called Auditors."

"Are they nightmares?"

Susan shook her head. "Not usually. Usually they don't bother with individual humans. They actually do serve a purpose in the universe, though I'm not sure what exactly. Unfortunately they absolutely despise humans, and try to do something about it from time to time." She tapped the poker and smirked. "And sometimes, whether they mean to or not, doing so turns them very definitely into something you would consider monstrous, and I have just the medicine for that affliction."

Jessica looked at the poker with some doubt, but then again, she had seen all three of them shrink in fear from it. _Oh well._ She shook her head again. "Why are they torturing me? Why me?"

Susan grew quiet for a moment, considering her words carefully. "Myria was… instrumental in stopping one of their recent efforts, and I believe they blame her for its failure. Since they can't get at her, they seem to be taking it out on your family. You're probably the most susceptible right now." She frowned. "But I suspect they would have moved on to Jonathon or your father once they had…" She trailed off.

"I see." Jessica's eyes unfocused, and she spoke very slowly, drawing out each word. "Susan? Those things. And... Myria." She reached out and grasped Susan's cloak. "She was one of them, wasn't she? Please, you have to tell me."

Susan sighed. This could make it easier, or more difficult, depending on how Jessica took it. "Yes. She was."

"But she is nothing like those… things. I could feel their hatred for me. Myria was never like _that_, even when she came to rescue me and turned into… she didn't turn into that. She was just _empty_."

"That's right. Myria may have been like that at first; I don't know because I didn't see her in the early stages. But that was different. The Auditors you just saw took on forms in your mind, not physical bodies." She smiled wickedly. "They learned a very sharp and painful lesson about what happens to Auditors that try to get 'physical'. Living is quite addictive. I doubt they will ever try taking on physical bodies again" She stood up. "Now, what do you say we feed our own addiction a bit. I could use a bite to eat myself." She paused and deliberately snapped her fingers, and Jessica felt something change.

"What was that?"

"Ah, just a little… something I undid so we could have that snack. It's really not important. Shall we?"

"Wait… will those… Auditors… come back?"

Susan smiled with her teeth. "I very seriously doubt that Jessica. I believe I have put the fear of _me_ into them."

* * *

><p>A strange sound, unfamiliar to his ears, awoke Jonathon Knäcke not long after midnight. Filtered through the closed door of his bedroom, the sheer oddness of it was enough to bring him out of a sound sleep.<p>

Not that he slept heavily these days. Far too often, the sound of Jessica's screams or sobs broke the rest of the entire household. Or worse, the sickening thud when she awoke in a dazed and weakened condition and fell trying to flee her room.

He shook his head groggily, trying to identify what had brought him out of sleep, and realized why it was so unfamiliar.

It was the silver sound of his cousin's laughter, followed by a low murmur.

Rubbing his unruly hair, he sat and checked the time on his bedside clock. It wasn't very accurate; he had to adjust the time every other day, but it was enough to make sure he woke early enough to receive deliveries in the mornings. He stared at it in disbelief. Just after 1:30 in the morning. _Was she hallucinating now? Gods how much more of this can we take?_ He thought muzzily as he pulled himself semi-erect and staggered through the doorway prepared for the worst.

What he found before him defied reality. At the small table in common room was his cousin, still far too thin, but clear-eyed and with a healthy blush as she giggled at something the other occupant had said. She was sipping tea and nibbling on a biscuit, and caught his eye almost immediately.

"Oh! Good morning Jonny! Did we wake you?"

If it hadn't been so damnably wonderful to see her actually _snarky_, he would have snarled at her. As it was… "Uh, yeah I guess you did. What are you doing up? You look… you look great." Then he noticed the hair coloring of the other visitor, who had her back to him. "Miss Susan! What are you _doing_ here?"

"Hmph. Is that what you call courtesy Mr. Knäcke? And here I came all this way to have a nice morning tea with your cousin." She turned her head slightly, and he could see her smirking and a wicked gleam in her eye. "Jessica was just telling me the most fascinating story about your name." Jessica's face flamed, but she looked at Jonathon defiantly.

Oh gods…

"Well… I… But…"

"Oh dear, we seem to have overcome your cousin, Jessica." She turned more fully to Jonathon. "I really do apologize Jonathon, I did not intend to wake you so early. I did have something to discuss with you, but honestly, it can wait until a more reasonable hour. I only came early because I felt I owed Jessica some explanation and assistance."

"And I, for one, am very glad you did Susan." Jessica interjected. "But," and she gave a large and exaggerated yawn, "I really am tired. In fact, I think I'll go back to bed and leave you to it." She nodded at Jonathon, who started forward to help her but stopped when he realized she was already out of the chair and making her way back to her room. Not quite steadily, but definitely not in need of his help. "Good night cousin."

"Er… good night Jessie."

He stood looking at the door for a few seconds more, trying to come to terms with the change in her, then looked at Susan, who was sitting again with her back to him. Somehow she was managing to exude a quiet smugness, and he found it a bit infuriating.

"Miss Susan, what in the name of Io are you doing here, in our bakery, in our _rooms_, in the middle of the night?"

"Sit down Jonathon." She ordered without turning around. "This will be a bit in the telling, and you don't look like you are fully awake yet. I don't want you falling and waking the entire household thinking it was Jessica."

Grumbling, Jonathon worked his way across the rough wooden floor and into the chair facing her. Elbows propped on the table, he put his face in his hands and stared at it. "Ok. I'm sitting down. _Now_ will you explain what you are doing here? And why Jessica seems to have recovered overnight?"

"It would be my pleasure. Attend."

And she did. More than he imagined was possible, she explained. It took several hours to cover everything. He went from inconvenienced and bewildered with unfocused eyes pointed at the table, to trying to focus on Susan, to wide-awake and feeling like he was drinking from a waterfall as he tried to absorb everything she told him. About Jessica and why she had not been getting better but probably would now. About the Auditors and what they were and had tried to do to reality. About Myria. How she had come to be. What she had been. What she was now.

What she was capable of.

"Do you mean this? That she is that dangerous?"

"Jonathon, Myria was nearly godlike in potential ability. All the Auditors are, you understand. It is only the absolute aversion to 'breaking the rules' and a lack of real emotion that makes them, at least normally, nothing more than a nuisance.

"But Myria is not an Auditor."

"No, she was becoming human. And strangely, with becoming human her psyche self-imposed limits on what she could do. I watched when she fought the other Auditors, she could have dissolved them with a thought, but the human form doesn't just provide substance, it forces the mind into a particular form as well. She _wouldn't_ do those things, because her body told her that humans _couldn't_ do those things."

Jonathon shook his head. "But I don't understand. What you are saying is that this makes her somehow more dangerous now."

"Yes, that is the problem. Now she, I suspect, no longer believes herself to be human. But she is not an Auditor either. I don't know what she is. Imagine something with that kind of power, but without the innate fear of breaking the rules." The corners of her eyes tightened. "I don't even know if she still has humanity left in her, but I do know this, she has been hurt. She has been hurt very badly. Do you know what a wounded animal does when it has been hurt? It finds a quiet place, it could be a cave or a hole, and waits to live or die." She paused and considered her next words. "And anything that comes near it, whether to help or hurt, risks being attacked itself."

Jonathon was quiet, his face giving away nothing.

"Jonathon, what I am trying to tell you is, Myria is probably the most dangerous creature on the Disc right now, and I have to do something about her."

"You? Why you?"

Susan sighed. "Because my grandfather[2] will probably have to be involved, and that is a long story which I am not prepared to go into. And because I played a significant role in all of this happening. I bear some of the responsibility. But I can't do it by myself." She regarded him intently. "We have talked about this twice now. It is time for you to make a decision."

"Why, Susan? Why does this depend on me? It's my fault that-"

"That is enough. You cannot bear the blame for everything that has happened. You could not have predicted how everything would play out. And to answer your question, whether you like it or not you are still Myria's anchor to humanity. She will probably deny it, and I understand it is a difficult burden for you to bear. Whether or not you still care for her, unless you make the effort, I doubt there is any hope in dragging 'Lady Myria LeJean' back from wherever and whatever she is right now."

Jonathon began to shake, his head making small back and forth movements. "I can't Susan… I can't… I..." He took a shuddering breath. "What… what happens if I can't do this?"

"Then I'm afraid you will leave me little other choice. Myria cannot be left in her current state. It's either the two of us go and bring her back to humanity, or…" She did not explain the significance of that further, but it sounded very final.

"I don't know what I should do." Jonathon said quietly after a minute. "I'm afraid."

"I understand Jonathon, but the fact is, you need to decide. It isn't fair that this should be on your shoulders, but it is. You can go back to your life now, and watch your cousin regain her health and see your family recover their footing. That is the safe thing to do, but you will have to live with what that decision means for your friend."

Susan stood up, carefully pushing the chair back underneath the small table. "Or, you can take the risk and come with me. And together, maybe, just maybe, we can drag Myria back from wherever it is she has fled. Or maybe we will make things worse."

"Either way, it is time Jonathon…time to decide."

* * *

><p>[1] Another reason why Auditors will never rule the universe. Get them a little overexcited and they start thinking in terms of "me", and next thing you know they've self-destructed. Kind of like swamp dragons.<p>

[2] Susan's grandfather, in case you have forgotten, is the anthropomorphic personification of Death.


	25. Heat Death

**Chapter 25 – Heat Death**

A quiet corner of Small Gods Cemetery, shielded from the broader expanse of markers, monuments, and in some cases freshly turned earth by dense lilac bushes, glimmered with condensing mist in the pale lightening of the early morning. In the stillness, the quiet footfalls of a woman could be clearly heard, were anyone listening.

As Susan Sto Helit entered the secluded corner, she held a small glass and metal object in her hand, moving it gently back and forth, almost like a divining rod. Carefully she picked her way past the remaining gravesites before pausing before one very particular monument, fashioned in the likeness of a very particular woman.

The cool surface of the statue, somehow cooler than the surrounding air, combined with the warm humidity, had conspired to give it a coating of condensing moisture.

Susan placed her hands on her hips and regarded it for several long moments until one of the small beads of water just below its left eye contacted the one next to it, and combining ran slowly down the surface… gathering speed and mass as it went until it dangled, and then fell to the damp ground below.

Susan arched an eyebrow. "Quite melodramatic Myria. But I'm afraid I've never been a fan of drama. It's one of the reasons I've never been a patron of the opera. Well, that and the fact that with my family history, watching some of the more ridiculous death scenes tends to make me laugh." She waited for a full minute before continuing.

"I know you're listening. You're not fooling anyone you know."

Susan stood for a few more moments, tapping her foot and considering. "Well? We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

The body of Myria Lejean was silent. Still.

"Fine, if that's the way you want it." Susan began to turn, and stopped as she became aware of a thought forming in her head.

_Why are you here? Why do you bother us. We are not human. You have seen what we are._

"Oh _stop_ it. _You_ are Myria. You are not a 'we'. And I do not like people talking into my head."

_Saying it does not make it true. Humans think it does, but it does not. We are not even really alive._

Susan snorted and raised the object in her left hand. Sitting on her palm was a small hourglass. The top was about three-quarters full of fine white sand, with the remainder in the bottom. The sand was… doing nothing. Just sitting there and most definitely not flowing. "See this my dear? This says that regardless of this little pantomime you have going on here, you are not in fact dead. What you are, is someone trying very, very hard not to be alive." She shook her head. "It doesn't work you know. No matter how much it hurts. Life just keeps happening to you."

Silence. But in that silence, Susan became aware that at least one of her suspicions was, unhappily, proving to be true. She could clearly sense that as she neared Myria, reality had changed somewhat. The air was colder, and somehow thinner, the closer she came.

Susan sighed. "Myria, you are alive. Even now, you are fighting to live. We living things are stupid that way. And in doing so, you may be causing irreparable damage to reality."

_It is a lie. It is all a lie._

"Yes, yes, it's _all_ a lie. You told Jessica…" Susan took some satisfaction at seeing a slight tremor in the figure at the mention of that name, "that you lied all the time. Well guess what, lying to ourselves is one of the things humans do. And like many other things," she made a sour face, "I'm better at it than most. So don't talk to me about lying, or pain for that matter, or about fitting in."

Silence.

"Jessica is fine you know." Another slight tremor. "You saved her life. Hers and probably yours too."

_It does not matter. If we had not existed, it would never have happened. And we did not save our life. We have nothing to save._

"Tripe. Utter tripe. Myria, you understand that you cannot remain in this state? _Use_ those Auditor derived senses you inherited. Tell me what is happening in this little corner of the Disc you have walled yourself into." She arched an eyebrow. "No witty repartee? No denials? Even I can feel the difference. You are not _suffering in silence_, regardless of what you may be telling yourself. You are affecting reality around you, and it is growing. You are literally sucking the life out of the universe in your attempt to isolate yourself from it."

_Lies. Leave us alone here. We will harm nothing. Let us die._

Susan took a deep breath and blew it slowly out through her nose. She must not lose her temper. It was a good thing she'd had such a good week, or she would have already done. For the next thirty minutes, she tried every tack she could think of to draw Myria out, without success, and in the process became more and more frustrated. Finally she threw her hands up in despair.

"Myria, you leave me little choice. I want you to understand that this brings me no joy." Stepping back and to the side, Susan called over her right shoulder. "I'm afraid I have done all I can do. It appears you will be needed after all."

From the shadows just past the dense flowering bushes, a tall figure garbed in a dark cloak and hood walked stiffly toward them. It halted when it reached the two.

"Hello Myria," Jonathon said as he pulled back the hood of the cloak. His voice cracked slightly, ruining his attempt at being nonchalant and earning a 'tsk' from Susan. "We need to talk."

The body of Myria LeJean visibly shifted at the sound of that voice. _Good. Thought Susan. I was right again. And I so misliked the alternative._

"_Myria_." He repeated insistently.

With a cracking sound that made Susan wince, the statue of Myria LeJean shifted, trying desperately to move the eyes, no longer sightless, where they would not have to face the human in front of her. Vocal cords that had been thought unneeded were forced into service with a rasp. "Why are you here? You cannot hurt us any more." With a grating that could be felt as well as heard, the face turned further away. "There is nothing to hurt." And the cold radiating from her seemed to increase, defensively.

"Myria, I'm sorry. I was not…" He laughed bitterly at himself. "It was too much. Do you remember saying that to me? It was too much."

"You do not have to be here. Jessica is safe. You do not need us. You can go back to your life."

Jonathon held out his hands. "Myria, you don't understand, I don't want that life. It would not be… enough now."

Myria's form shifted again with a sound of sand grinding between stone, slowly moving its head from side to side in denial. "Is this what it means to be human? To always have too much or not enough? To think that you have something only to lose it? So that it becomes less than having nothing at all? If this is human, then I do not wish it."

Jonathon twitched at this, looking to Susan for help and finding none. He sighed. "Sometimes yes, but that is part of what makes having them, those moments when it isn't too much or not enough, so precious. It is what makes life worth it."

"Worth _what_? I had a friend and they took her from me, because of me. It is too _hard_." Myria's voice was regaining its normal tones. "I do not want to want this." Moisture was beginning to pool in the grey on grey eyes, and it was more than could be explained by water condensing on the cool surface.

Jonathon stepped closer. "Myria. You said I."

Myria flushed and her face snapped around to stare at Jonathon. The gray shades of her exposed skin fled from her face in a wave of pale red. Then its lines whitened. She drew back her hand and slapped him across the face. _Hard_. As he jerked sideways with the shock and pain of it, he was sure she had cracked his cheekbone. The blow had been harder than he would have believed.

"You-you _human_!" She drew back and struck him again. "Organic! Irrational! I _hate_ you!" The second blow he had anticipated and went with the strike, turning his head and twisting at the waist; the pain still was intense, but at least it didn't feel like anything _new_ was broken. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Susan start forward, and he gave a small shake of the head. Susan stopped and her expression said _fine, be the punching bag_.

Jonathon turned back in time to see Myria draw her hand back a third time, clenched into a fist, which she drove into his stomach, doubling him over. "Why won't you leave me _alone?_! You know what I am now! What I can do! Jessica saw it and she was terrified of me!"

Jonathon stumbled backward with the pain and force of the blow, like being hit in the gut with a sledgehammer, and fell to one knee. _Gods that really hurts._ He peered up at her. _But it's working. _He could see the colors washing over her, the gray and pale flesh-tones seeming to fight for dominance. "No matter what you think, I care about you Myria," he coughed and winced at the pain, then tried to smile through the ache in his face. "So if hitting me helps, then go right ahead."

It seemed the wrong thing to say. Instead of pushing her closer to her humanity, the anger drained out of Myria's face, and with it the color, washing back to monotones. "You do not… you do not mean that. You are trying to… to make me _feel_ things again. That is what you have been doing. You think you know what I am? What I am capable of? You want me to… to _feel_?" A wave of cold washed over him and the air seemed to thin.

Her voice shifted back to inside his head, painfully. _Is this what you want? I feel pain! Fear! Loss! Agony! Torture! Terror! Emptiness!_

Jonathon Knäcke felt that wave of emotion wash over him. As it sank its teeth into his substance, Myria was transformed before him, morphing from a cold beauty into, something else. An empty shell filled with… nothing.

"No." He shook his head in denial, his breath fogging before him. "_No_ Myria, that's not all that you are."

And her form changed further, dissolving until the nothing it contained was merely a deeper darkness enclosed in a formless cloak.

_Really? Then you do not understand at all. _She gestured at Jonathon with her left hand.

In an instant, there were thousands of the gray-cloaked figures before him, each indistinguishable from the next. Each regarded him with the same cold indifference that the emptiness of space holds for the sparse matter that passes through it. Come or go, it was the same transient lack of importance. He could feel the vastness of space around him. Nothingness, in the face of which he was less than nothing.

_In the lifespan of a star, your entire existence is nothing more than an eyeblink. In that of a galaxy, less than the oscillation of a single electron. Compared to the span of existence of the universe, you do not even exist. _

Jonathon Knäcke was wholly unprepared to face this reflection of his existence; this insignificance. He was a mote in the vastness of eternity. Adrift in the void.

In the void of space, he realized, there is no air to breathe. There is no warmth to comfort.

His hands flew to his throat, clawing as he felt the air rushing from lungs suddenly wracked with agony. Not only air escaped; nerves throughout his body sang with the pain of thousands of feet of capillaries whose liquid contents threatened to boil and freeze in the vacuum. The animal-instinct portion of him began to panic, looking for the escape, and seeing only the Auditors.

_Now you understand, human. What we are. And what you are to us._

_Gods Myria, _help_ me._

_We will help you. We will end your suffering._

And he felt it, the very substance of himself, begin to fray.

* * *

><p>THAT IS QUITE ENOUGH.<p>

Jonathon snapped back, finding himself lying on the cool earth and clawing his throat raw as he stared up at the gray face of Myria. Myria, who had jerked back in surprise, breaking the private little hell he had been experiencing. He drew in great gasping breaths and coughed as the icy air bit into abused lungs. That aspect at least had not been only in his head.

Susan advanced toward them both, drawing two objects, each dark and metallic, from beneath her cloak and holding them loosely at her sides. In her left she held a sword, blue fire running up and down its impossibly sharp blade. In her right, she held something deemed even more deadly by many creatures on the Disc.

The Poker.

"I am sorry for you Myria, I truly am, but I cannot allow you to continue as you have. And I cannot allow you to harm Jonathon either. Be told, if you do that again, I _will_ put you down. Do I make myself clear?"

Myria froze, then pulled herself erect, strangely intent. "You would do that?" Jonathon, painfully, pulled himself up onto one knee, hoping he was wrong about what would come next.

"I would, if you forced my hand."

Myria's face set, moisture filling her eyes. "Then so be it." And she gestured again at Jonathon as before, fulfilling his fears.

Time seemed to slow as everything happened in the space of heartbeats.

Jonathon realized with a shock that despite her threat, Myria was not actually doing anything to harm him. Her gesture had been… a bluff.

Susan, grim faced, hurled the cast-iron poker like a javelin at Myria. As it flew, tearing through the chill air toward Myria's chest, it seemed to glow with a blue fire… fueled by the unshakable faith of two young children in its ability to slay any monster. It hurtled through the air, a deadly dart intent on piercing the not quite flesh of something that was not quite human.

And Myria. Myria closed her eyes with a slight, sad smile, awaiting oblivion.

Instant followed instant in the slow tick of time. The fleeting seconds of a life mirrored in the suddenly flowing of grains of sand through a small glass-and-metal hourglass.

And Myria gasped as the poker struck, with a sickening thud, the body of Jonathon Knäcke, who had thrown himself in front of it.

"_NO!_" Myria screamed, as Jonathon fell backward curling around the impact and caroming off of her. Susan stood frozen in place, disbelief etched into her features.

"Of all the stupid, foolhardy, boneheaded…"

"What have you _done_!?" Myria wailed, though it was impossible to tell whether she was referring to Susan or Jonathon. She fell to her knees next to him, pale with shock and fearing to touch him as he lay writhing on his side.

Susan watched wide-eyed for scant seconds longer, and then her eyes narrowed as she regained some of her cynical and bloody suspicious nature. "I'd say, Myria, that what he has done is prove a point. Though I daresay there may have been less painful ways to do so."

Myria stared at her as if she had gone mad. "He is dying and…" her mouth worked, "and you are being… wrong! Unkind! Have you no feelings?"

"Unkind?" Susan moved to where Jonathon lay curled in a tight ball, and knelt down beside Myria. "Myria use your eyes. Note the remarkable absence of poker sticking out of Jonathon's back? And with it the complete lack of blood and/or internal organs on the ground." Jonathon chose that moment to groan loudly. "Though he may cough up a kidney at some point, I do not believe he will in fact die." She put a hand on Myria's shoulder briefly and her expression softened. "Here, help me see how bad it really is."

"Gods… let me die" Jonathon moaned as Susan tried to get his arms moved aside.

"Oh don't _you_ start that now. Honestly, I've had my fill. And no you aren't going to die." She was trying, with limited success, to get his arms moved aside enough to verify this. "I don't even believe it broke the skin, since I still don't see any blood. Though it may have cracked a few ribs. What were you thinking?"

Myria shifted, cradling Jonathon's face in her lap as Susan carefully opened his shirt. "You said-" Jonathon gasped again as she touched a rib, "dammit that hurts!" He coughed again, and cried out with the pain. Regaining his breath, he finally managed to finish. "You said it only kills monsters..."

Susan rolled her eyes. "It's a poker you dimwit, it's still a very large, very heavy piece of metal flying very fast with pointy end foremost. And I am not some limp-wristed maiden, you self-sacrificing twit. You could very well have gotten yourself killed regardless if it hadn't bounced off your ribs. _Be_ _still_!" She ordered crossly as he writhed again.

"Susan will you stop being so cruel? Can you not see that he is hurt badly?"

"It was in a good cause. And if you had not been trying for Suicide by Death then it wouldn't have happened at all."

Myria's eyes strayed to Death's sword, laying several feet away on the grass. "Would you… would you have used that? Truly?"

Susan did not look at her. "Only if I'd no other choice Myria. But yes, if it had been necessary."

There was a thoughtful silence. "Thank you Susan you truly have been a good friend."

"You are most welcome. But this is definitely the preferable of the two possible endings." Jonathon groaned. "Well at least for two of us. And it does settle a question I had been concerned about."

Myria narrowed her eyes. "Which question is this?"

"The boy is a fool for you Myria. It would be best not to let him go on suffering so."

Myria took on a pained expression that mirrored Jonathon's as she cupped his face in one hand. "I am sorry Jonathon. I am sorry for everything. You… you made me very _angry_, and it hurt very much." She shook her head and took several deep breaths and raised her face to Susan. "How do you… how do you keep from striking people in the face all the time?"

"Practice," Susan answered helpfully. Jonathon merely groaned again, which might have been agreement. "Just like everything else." She tsk'd again. "Since you have managed to incapacitate yourself Jonathon, I think it would be best if I arrange for a coach and a litter. Otherwise…" one corner of her mouth turned up "we might have to invest in some cotton to block out the sound of your yelling and moaning."

"Susan!"

"Oh fine. You certainly seem to be recovering your empathy rather quickly Myria. Pray focus it on Jonathon, and I will make arrangements." She quickly gathered her Grandfather's sword, and The Poker and began making her way toward Small Gods Street. As she left, she cast a smug glance over her shoulder.

There, in the midst of Small Gods Cemetery, framed by the blooms of lilacs, a young man lay in not-so-quiet misery, his head in the lap of a beautiful if slightly worse for wear lady.

_They have no idea what they are in for._ She thought to herself.

And that of course, is entirely the point.

**Finis**

**[A/N B**ecause all writers crave it, please DO take a few moments to write a review or at least PM me and let me know your thoughts on the story. ** And thank you all for following along with me, and most especially to DarkPatu for his ongoing feedback and suggestions. Without his encouragement chapter by chapter, I might not have finished it at all. **

**Oh, and btw, there is a sequel in progress. I have left a good half dozen threads waiting to be explored, and there is so much more about Myria LeJean left to tell. Thank you all.]  
><strong>


	26. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

A large and elegant mansion rises from a well-manicured estate just off Scoone Avenue. Like its inhabitants, it embodies both former glory and a slight aura of wounded pride.

Attend, as we worm our way through a formal entrance designed to intimidate, past purpose-built and strangely uncomfortable seating in the formal sitting room, down private corridors to a spacious and if somewhat decadent room smelling of tobacco smoke, dry paper, and old bookbinding glue.

Take a nice deep sniff, and you might find that lurking below these, and in some ways overpowering them, is the reek of old money and privilege. It is the kind of stench associated with the aggrieved frustrated self-importance of a lion that has been too long held to second-place in a too-small fishbowl*.

(Ahem, where were we? Ah yes…)

Sitting behind the ponderous and ornate desk, the self-defined gentleman adjusted his monocle and frowned at his servant.

"So you mean to tell me that this… _Lady_," his face pinched slightly in distaste at applying the title to her, "LeJean is responsible for extensive damage to my property, totaling… what was the number again?"

"Yes milord, it was over $10,000 AM. And it was only indirectly the lady's fault milord. It seems she stored a large amount of gold on the premises without paying her Thieves Guild dues, and miscreants attempted to steal it." He tensed, anticipating his master's displeasure.

"I see. Harumph" He harumphed. "And you have notified this… person that she is responsible for returning _my_ property to its original _pristine_ condition?"

Mr. Feddleman decided that correcting him on the prior condition of the residence would not be in his best interests at this point. "Of course milord. She indicated she had the ability to pay for the repairs in the time specified by the terms of her lease."

"Bah. Then why do you waste my time Feddleman? Have it taken care of!"

"Unfortunately milord, there has been.. a complication. Lady LeJean has sense been kidnapped."

Lord Rust's eyes ceased their aimless appraisal of dust motes and turned toward Feddleman. "Kidnapped eh? Not surprising. Bloody foreigners, wandering around the city with their foreign wealth, flaunting our established traditions**. They have no breeding you know, might as well give sausages to savages." Feddleman blinked at that one, but Rust kept going. "Fah, they are almost as bad as those damnable dwarves and trolls." He stood up and began pacing behind the desk. "The ruination of our way of life. That's what it is. Diluting out culture, supplanting the natural order of things. Getting above their station!" His monocle fell loose, hanging from its chain, and Feddleman suspected the topic of conversation had shifted slightly. "Allowing commoners… _commoners_ to assume titles their family never earned!" He fixed him with a watery glare and paused. "Why are you still here Feddleman?"

Feddleman shuddered. "Er, there is one other thing milord." He took a step back. "It turns out the gold was somehow hidden in the flagstones of the floor milord, and after she was kidnapped the Watch declared the area a crime scene and-"

Rust reared up against the desk, leaving Feddleman grateful for its presence even thought the massive bulk of it actually shifted beneath Rust's ire. "The _Watch_! The _Watch_! The _Watch_ has declared my property a crime scene! Is there no _end_ to the insolence of that… that _commoner_! That _pretender_! That… that _Vimes_!" Feddleman cowered before the sight of a nearly apoplectic Rust. Spittle and foam flew as his master jerked his head savagely. "Enough! Vetinari will bring that thief-taker to heel! This time he goes too far. They declare my property a crime scene because of… because of…" He quieted suddenly, and Feddleman thanked whatever Discworld gods might be listening. "Did you say, Feddleman, that the gold was hidden _inside_ the flagstones of the floor?" His eyes glinted suddenly. "How much gold is there?"

"It-!" Feddleman squeaked, then coughed and cleared his throat, "It would appear something in the seven figure range milord." Rust's face went suddenly unreadable, and he slowly straightened. He walked back to his overturned chair, straightening it and sitting calmly as he polished and replaced his monocle. "I see."

There was a long, pregnant silence as the two mean silently counted up various things with lots of zeros after them.

"And you will attest that the flagstone in question was installed there _before_ the property was leased." It was not a question.

Feddleman sagged in relief. "Yes milord. Of course milord." And, he could hope, there would be a sizable commission involved. Well he could _hope_ couldn't he?

"It seems to me. " Lord Rust rubbed his chin. "_It seems to me_ that I do not need to trouble _Lady_ LeJean for the funds to repair my property. For one, it appears that _Lady_ LeJean may not be in any condition to return to the property. Not that a gentleman would wish any harm to a _Lady_ of course." Feddleman nodded vigorously. "And secondly, it does not appear that _Lady_ LeJean has any funds with which to have such repairs made after all."

Rust's eyes gleamed. "Thus it appears that, sadly, we will be forced to make such repairs out of funds that, it seems, I already possessed. Is this not correct Feddleman?" He did not wait for a response. "Yes. Yes do go and call Mr. Slant. I believe I need to consult with him regarding certain... legal questions regarding my _continued_ ownership of a large amount of precious metals that... certain others may seek to improperly claim as their own." Feddleman made to leave.

"Oh and Feddleman, should Lady LeJean prove to be at liberty after all, you will of course inform her that it will take many months to repair the damage. I'm afraid the _Lady_ will have to seek other lodging." A slight smile creased his lips. "Yes, indeed."

* * *

><p>* Yes yes we are mixing our metaphors. Fine. It's a LIONfish. Are you happy now?<p>

** Traditions such as the venerable "My family has always had all the money and those other families have always been poor, how about we keep it that way?" and "Social mobility? What on _earth_ sort of infernal idea is that?"

* * *

><p><strong>[Author's Note and Plea: If you have found this story interesting enough to read alllll the way to here, please tell me what you thought about it by leaving a review (see that little button down there? You can do so using an account or as an anonymous guest) or by sending me a private message (there is a PM link next to my screen name near the top of this chapter). As an amateur writer, the only thing worse than no readers at all, is SILENT readers who leave you wondering "Did they really like it? Or not? What did they like about it? Maybe they just struggled through... aaaahhhhh!" So please, have mercy on we poor, toiling writers. We get no coin for our work, our only pay is your feedback. Thank you!]<br>**


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